B^  ROBERT-HICHENS 

Illustrated  bi;  JULES-GUERIN 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


-,(,M^^ 


THE  HOLY  LAND 


Copyright,  1909,  1910,  by 
The  Century  Co. 

Puhlishid  October,  igio 


THE   DE  VINNE   PRESS 


College 
Library 


/07.3 


PAGB 


CONTENTS 
I 

BAALBEC,  THE  TOWN  OF  THE  SUN i 

n 

THE  SPELL  OF  DAMASCUS        41 

HI 
FROM  DAMASCUS  TO  NAZARETH 87 

IV 
FROM  NAZARETH  TO  JERUSALEM 131 

V 
FROM  JERICHO  TO  BETHLEHEM 165 

VI 

JERUSALEM 209 

VII 

THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHER.    THE 

CEREMONIES  AT  JERUSALEM 255 


G101027 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


The  Garden  of  Gethsemane Frontispiece 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 


PAGE 


Columns  of  the  Temple  of  Jupiter,  the  Temple  of  Bacchus,  and 

the  Snow-Capped  Range  of  Anti-Lebanon,  Baalbec     ...        4 

From  a  Photograph. 

Temple  of  Bacchus,  Baalbec 9 

From  a  Photograph. 

The  Temple  of  Bacchus,  Baalbec 14 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

Alcove  in  the  Enclosure  Wall,  Temple  Area,  Baalbec     ....      17 

From  a  Photograph. 

Interior  of  the  Temple  of  Bacchus,  Baalbec        24 

From  a  Photograph. 

The  Columns  of  the  Sun,  Baalbec 27 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

Temple  of  Venus,  Baalbec 3' 

From  a  Photograph. 

Foundation  Wall  of  the  Great  Temple  Area,  Baalbec     ....     38 

From  a  Photograph. 

The  Sweetmeat  Bazaar,  Damascus 44 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

The  Court  of  the  Omayyade  Mosque,  Damascus 49 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

Within  the  Colonnade  of  the  Omayyade  Mosque 55 

From  a  Photograph. 

Mohammedan  Cemetery,  Minarets,  and  Anti-Lebanon  Mountains, 

Damascus 62 

From  a  Photograph. 

vii 


LIST  OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGB 

Bazaars,  Damascus 66 

From  a  Photograpli. 

Minarets  and  Roofs  of  Damascus 69 

From  a  Photograph. 

Return  of  the  Holy  Carpet  from  Mecca 76 

From  a  Photograph. 

Open  Bazaars  of  Damascus 79 

From  a  Photograph. 

The  Market-Place,  Damascus 83 

Painted  by  Jules  Gu^rin. 

Bedouin  Encampment  in  the  Desert 92 

From  a  Pliotograph. 

Tiberias  and  the  Sea  of  Gahlee 95 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

The  Housetops  of  Nazareth 102 

Painted  by  Jules  tluiSrin. 

The  River  Jordan,  near  its  Source        105 

From  a  Photograph. 

Tiberias,  on  the  Sea  of  Gahlee i  lo 

From  a  Photograph. 

Tiberias  and  the  Sea  of  Galilee I15 

From  a  Photograph. 

Magdala,  on  the  Sea  of  Galilee 122 

From  a  Photograph. 

Gateway  at  Tiberias 127 

From  a  Photograph. 

Men  of  Galilee 134 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

The  Damascus  Gate,  Jerusalem 139 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

Ruins  of  Samaria,  the  Northern  Capital 145 

From  a  Photograph. 

Nazareth 152 

From  a  Photograph. 

viit 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


I'AGK 


Plain  of  Dothan,  Palestine 158 

From  a  Photograph, 

Crusaders'  Arch  and  Tower  at  Ramleh 163 

From  a  Photograph. 

The  River  Jordan 1 70 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

The  Wilderness  of  Judea 175 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

Inn  of  the  Good  Samaritan 180 

From  a  Photograph. 

At  Mar  Saba,  between  Jerusalem  and  the  Dead  Sea       .     .      .      .183 

From  a  Photograph. 

The  Wilderness  of  Judea 190 

From  a  Photograph. 

Monastery  of  St.  George  in  the  Wadi  El-Kelt,  Desert  of  Judea    .    193 

From  a  Photograph. 

The  Mount  of  Temptation 198 

From  a  Photograph. 

The  Dead  Sea  and  the  Mountains  of  Moab 201 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

Church  of  the  Nativity,  Bethlehem 205 

P'rom  a  Photograph. 

The  Wailing- Place  of  the  Jews,  Jerusalem 212 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

The  Pool  of  Hezekiah,  Jerusalem 217 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

The  Dome  of  the  Rock,  Jerusalem 223 

From  a  Photograph. 

The  Mount  of  Olives  as  seen  from  Jerusalem 227 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

The  Aksa  Mosque,  Jerusalem 232 

From  a  Photograph. 

Over  Jerusalem  to  the  Mount  of  Olives 236 

From  a  Photograph. 

ix 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

PACK 

Absalom's  Tomb,  Jerusalem        239 

From  a  Photograph. 

The  Kedron  Valley,  Siloam,  and  the  Wall  of  Jerusalem       .  .   246 

From  a  Photograph. 

The  Damascus  Gate,  Jerusalem 249 

From  a  Photograph. 

The  Court  of  the  Churcii  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher,  Easter  Morning   260 

Painted  by  Jules  Uu^rin. 

Gethsemane  and  the  Mount  of  Olives 263 

From  a  Photograph. 

Via  Dolorosa        270 

From  a  Photograph. 

Mosque  of  Omar 273 

Painted  by  Jules  Guerin. 

Easter  Pilgrims  to  Jerusalem 277 

From  a  Photograph. 

The  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher  at  Easter 284 

From  a  Photograph. 

Entrance  to  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher 288 

From  a  Photograph. 

The  Holy  Sepulcher,  Jerusalem 297 

From  a  Photograph. 


BAALBEC,  THE  TOWN  OF  THE  SUN 


I 


THE  HOLY  LAND 


BAALBEC,  THE  TOWN  OF  THE  SUN 

MANY  years  ago,  on  a  hot  day  of  September, 
I  came  out  from  the  gateway  of  the  Trappist 
monastery  of  Staoueli,  in  Algeria,  and  wan- 
.dered  along  the  blinding  white  road  that  led  toward  the 
prison  for  military  convicts.  The  sun-scorched  uplands 
stretched  to  the  horizon.  In  the  pellucid  clearness  of  the 
African  atmosphere  I  could  see  very  far,  and  vaguely 
desiring,  perhaps,  an  object  for  my  walk,  I  gazed  about 
me.  Where  should  I  go  now  that  I  was  beyond  the 
monastery  walls  ? 

Far  off,  standing  absolutely  alone,  I  perceived  a  low, 
earthen  tower.  I  left  the  road  and  directed  my  steps 
toward  it.  As  I  drew  near  to  it,  I  saw  almost  in  its 
shadow  a  donkey  circling  monotonously  round,  turning 
a  water-wheel,  and  crouched  on  the  hot  earth,  with  his 
back  against  the  little  tower,  a  boy  of  perhaps  sixteen, 
gazing  dreamily  over  the  plain  with  wide,  blue  eyes. 

5 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

He  was  a  Breton,  he  told  me.  A  Breton !  And  why 
was  he  there  in  the  burning  African  summer,  so  far  from 
his  own  gray  country?  Very  simply  he  told  me  why. 
Always,  he  said,  from  his  earliest  youth  he  had  longed 
to  go  to  the  Holy  Land,  to  stand  on  the  sacred  spot 
where  Christ  had  died  upon  the  Cross.  He  told  nothing 
to  any  one  of  his  desire,  which  at  last  became  so  keen 
that  secretly  he  left  his  home,  his  native  village,  and 
made  his  way  to  the  nearest  seaport.  There  he  saw  a 
ship  bound  for  Algiers.  He  was  so  ignorant  of  geog- 
raphy that  he  supposed  Algiers  was  a  city  in  Palestine. 
So  he  went  on  board  the  ship,  and  presently  found  him- 
self under  the  palms  of  Africa.  In  Algiers  he  nearly 
starved,  perhaps  would  have  starved,  had  he  not  heard 
by  chance  of  Staoueli,  and  of  the  good  Trappists  who 
fed  the  hungry  outside  the  "gate of  heaven."  One  day 
he  walked  out  of  the  city,  and  at  last,  nearly  dead  with 
fatigue  and  hunger,  came  to  the  monastery's  door,  above 
which  the  Blessed  Virgin  was  smiling.  The  monks 
took  him  in,  fed  him,  clothed  him,  gave  him  work.  And 
thus  it  came  about  that  I  found  him  sitting  in  the  shadow 
of  the  tower  on  that  burning  day  of  summer. 

"And  what  are    you  going  to  do?"    I   asked   him. 
"Are  you  going  back  to  Brittany?" 

"No,  Monsieur,"  he  replied.     "Some  day,  when  I 
have  saved  some  money,  I  shall  go  on." 

"Whereto?" 

"  I  shall  go  to  the  Holy  Land." 

0 


BAALBEC,  THE  TOWN  OF  THE  SUN 

He  waved  his  hand  toward  the  far-off  horizon;  he 
gazed  out  over  the  plain. 

"  I  shall  see  the  Holy  Land,"  he  murmured  almost  as 
if  to  himself 

I  thought  of  that  boy  and  his  dream  as  I  stood  on 
the  upland  of  Reyak,  in  Syria,  one  day  of  the  spring- 
time; for  I  at  last  was  fulfilling  a  dream  of  my  own:  I 
was  on  my  way  to  the  Holy  Land.  And  the  poor  little 
Breton?  Was  he  still  crouching  beneath  his  tower  in 
the  African  solitude,  or  had  he  wandered  away  ?  Per- 
haps we  should  meet  again  in  the  Court  of  the  Holy 
Sepulcher,  or  among  the  kneeling  pilgrims  of  Russia, 
who  come  to  kiss  the  stone  of  unction  on  which,  accord- 
ing to  tradition,  the  body  of  Christ  was  laid  when 
Nicodemus  anointed  it. 

A  warm  breeze,  which  yet  hinted  that  the  snows  were 
not  far  off,  blew  over  the  long  valley.  It  caressed  the 
rich,  red  earth.  It  stirred  the  bright,  green  crops.  It 
ruffled  the  gray-blue  feathers  of  the  pigeons  perched  on 
the  flat,  earth-covered  roofs  of  the  low,  white  houses, 
above  the  brown-shuttered  windows  of  which  the  grass 
was  growing.  Through  the  branches  of  the  mulberry- 
trees,  planted  in  careful  rows,  it  went;  through  the  silver 
and  green  poplars;  over  the  plain  toward  the  round 
mountains,  gray  and  brown,  with  great  wine-colored 
patches,  which  brought  to  the  mind  the  colored  rags  of 
the  Bedouin.  A  dark  boy,  whose  head  was  covered  by 
a  white  keffieh  bound  by  two  cords  of  wool,  squatted  by 

7 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

a  tethered  horse.  Some  children,  in  dusty,  rose-colored 
robes,  went  by  in  the  sunshine,  leading  a  flock  of  brown 
and  white  sheep.  A  Greek  priest,  with  flowing  hair  and 
beard,  wearing  a  tall,  black  hat,  strode  past  me  as  if  in 
haste,  followed  by  a  huge  dog  with  a  curly,  yellow  coat. 
Out  of  the  distance,  mingling  with  the  songs  of  the  birds, 
there  came  a  tinkle  of  bells,  the  pretty  caravan  music 
that  one  learns  to  love  in  the  far-off  countries.  Three 
camels  stepped  into  sight,  accompanied  by  a  tall,  bare- 
footed man,  thin,  with  fierce  eyes,  a  strenuous  gait,  a 
grave  and  cruel  bearing.  They  passed,  flinging  out  to 
the  air  the  light  melodies  of  travel.  The  man  shot  out 
at  the  Christian  dog  a  glance  that  could  come  only  from 
the  eyes  of  a  worshiper  of  the  Prophet.  He  and  his 
beasts  went  on  with  a  soft  determination  that  suggested 
fatality.  Slowly  the  chime  of  the  bells  died  on  the  fra- 
grant air.  To-morrow,  perhaps,  Damascus  would  hear 
it.  For  that  dreamlike  city  of  the  East  lay  hidden 
among  its  woods  and  dancing  waters  under  the  tawny 
hills  not  far  away.  Soon  I  must  follow  the  bells,  but 
not  yet;  for  in  the  fold  of  this  valley,  between  the  two 
snow-dappled  ranges  of  mountains,  the  Lebanon  and 
the  Anti-Libanus,  lay  the  antique  home  of  Baal  wor- 
ship. And  as  the  bells  lost  themselves  in  the  airy  dis- 
tance, I  put  away  from  me  the  thought  of  Damascus, 
and  turned  my  face  toward  the  Temple  of  the  Sun. 


8 


lEMPLK  Oh    tiALCHUS.   BAALBEC 


i-r.iu  a  [.'h.jtu^rapli.  cuj.yrig;ht,  L'y  Ln.lcr\Mn.kl  ^V  Li.  Jcr»  uvjd 


BAALBEC,  THE  TOWN  OF  THE  SUN 

A  MAGIC  OF  STRANGENESS 

Some  places  in  foreign  lands  seem  to  the  traveler  far 
more  foreign  than  others,  full  of  a  sort  of  magic  of 
strangeness.  That  day,  when  I  came  to  Baalbec,  the 
hills  seemed  strange  about  it,  for  the  snow-fields,  broken 
up  by  long  tracts  of  chocolate-colored  earth,  gave  to 
them  an  appearance  almost  as  bizarre  as  the  appearance 
of  a  zebra's  back.  Under  the  rays  of  the  burning  sun 
the  frail  torrents  of  white,  that  seemed  sweeping  through 
the  orchards  to  break  at  the  feet  of  the  temples,  looked 
like  the  foam  on  fairy  seas.  Between  them  the  white  dust 
flew  up  from  the  horses'  feet.  A  hard  hill,  yellow  as  the 
skin  of  a  lion,  stared  down  on  the  native  village.  ,  Here 
and  there  huge  cypresses  reared  their  mournful  heads, 
looking  gloomily  fantastic,  like  dignified  but  eccentric 
beings  in  exile,  longing  for  Italian  gardens,  and  aloof 
from  the  riot  of  spring  that  surged  round  the  Temple  of 
Bacchus.  Birds  sang  everywhere.  Among  the  thin 
trees  hidden  children  were  laughing.  A  metallic  voice 
cried  out  some  words  that  I  could  not  understand,  and 
suddenly  died  away.  Three  dark,  mysterious  women 
went  by,  shaded  by  white  parasols.  And  the  birds  and 
the  children's  voices,  and  the  shadows  cast  by  the  para- 
sols on  the  dark  faces  of  women,  and  the  eddies  of  dust 
floating  toward  the  orchards, — white  floating  to  white, — 
and  the  silhouettes  of  the  cypresses,  and  the  gold  and 
the  yellow  of  ruin  and  hill,  all  seemed  to  me  strange, 
almost  magically  foreign,  that  day. 

I  I 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

There  were  no  travelers  in  Baalbec  when  I  was  there 
in  the  springtime,  yet  the  wonder  of  white  and  gold  was 
not  for  me  alone  ;  for  the  people  of  Baalbec,  like  Baalbec 
itself,  are  strange.  Instead  of  ignoring  their  glorious 
ruins  with  the  contempt  or  the  indifference  bred  of  fa- 
miliarity, they  seem  actually  to  love  them.  They  visit 
them,  they  spend  the  shining  hours  among  them,  they 
laugh,  they  dream,  they  pipe,  they  sing  their  little,  twit- 
tering songs  where  Baal  once  was  w^orshiped  in  the 
ancient  days  of  Solomon ;  where  the  Greeks  worshiped 
Helios,  god  of  the  sun;  where  the  Romans  worshiped 
Jupiter;  where  Venus  had  her  votaries,  and  Bacchus 
his  devotees;  where  pagans  built,  and  Christians  de- 
stroyed ;  where  Constantine  the  Great  crushed  down  the 
ardors  of  those  who  adored  the  gods;  where  Timur 
fought  and  conquered ;  where  Arabs  came  and  built  a 
fortress  and  stayed. 

The  town  of  Baalbec  contains  some  five  thousand 
inhabitants,  about  a  quarter  of  whom  are  Christians.  It 
has  a  garrison ;  it  is  the  seat  of  a  bishop  of  the  Greek 
Catholic  church ;  it  owns  four  mosques,  three  churches, 
six  schools,  four  monasteries,  three  hotels,  and  a  Turk- 
ish bath :  but  all  these  glories  lie  far  enough  apart  from 
the  ruins  to  leave  their  almost  matchless  dignity  and 
beauty  unimpaired.  One  thinks  of  them  only  for  a  mo- 
ment, realizes  them  not  unpleasantly,  when  one  sees 
two  soldiers  strolling  hand  in  hand  down  the  staircase 
of  the  Temple  of  Jupiter,  or  comes  upon  a  group  of 

1  2 


.  ^ 


JJ' 


'r.  ; 


'..•V. 


V 


y 


4P. 


THE  TEMPLE  OF  BACCHUS,  BAALBEC 


BAALBEC,  THE  TOWN  OF  THE  SUN 

serious  Arabs  among  the  pillars  of  the  Temple  of  Bac- 
chus, or  surprises  a  group  of  women  in  shining  black 
beneath  the  Arab  tower  to  the  southwest  of  the  temple, 
or  upon  the  projecting  platform,  which  is  thrust  out  to- 
ward the  orchards  not  far  from  the  Columns  of  the  Sun, 
finds  a  bevy  of  brown  and  bright-eyed  Syrian  children 
smiling  down  at  the  fairy  revels  of  the  white  blossoms 
in  the  breeze. 

Never  had  I  understood  how  exquisite  white  can 
look  with  gold,  fragility  with  strength,  that  which,  has 
the  peculiar  loveliness  that  passes  with  that  which  has 
the  peculiar  splendor  that  endures,  till  I  saw  the  piled 
golden  stones,  columns,  and  mighty  walls  of  Baalbec 
rising  into  the  sunshine  among  the  white  flowers  of 
Baalbec's  orchards.  Baalbec  must  be  seen,  if  possible, 
in  spring,  and  seen  at  least  once  not  only  in  the  full 
glory  of  day,  but  also  when  the  sun  is  declining.  Then 
the  Columns  of  the  Sun  are  alive,  so  it  seems,  with 
changing  and  almost  mysterious  glories ;  walls,  archi- 
traves, door-posts,  capitals,  and  tangled  heaps  of  broken 
fragments,  hold  a  romantic  beauty  of  color  such  as  I 
have  not  seen  elsewhere  in  unpainted  stone. 

THE  STUPENDOUS  RUINS 

Among  the  ruins  of  Baalbec  are  remains  that  can  only 
be  called  stupendous.  So  stupendous  indeed  are  they 
that  in  former  days,  as  possibly  now,  many  of  the 
people  of  Syria  believed  Echmoudi.a  demon,  had  reared 

15 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

them  by  his  magic  arts.  To  this  day  there  are  learned 
Orientals  who  declare  that  Baalbec  must  have  existed 
before  the  flood,  as  only  mastodons  could  have  trans- 
ported from  the  neighboring  quarries  the  huge  blocks 
of  stone  which  are  found  there.  The  walls  that  are  still 
standing  are  gigantic.  The  six  Columns  of  the  Temple 
of  Jupiter  the  Sun, —  once  there  were  fifty-four  of  them, 
—  are  so  nobly  tall  that  they  look  as  if  they  would  fain 
soar  to  the  deity  whose  glory  they  celebrate.  Never- 
theless, the  ruins  of  Baalbec  do  not  almost  stupefy  the 
mind  as  some  ruins  in  Egypt  do  by  their  towering  vast- 
ness.  Although  composed  of  the  wreckage  of  many 
courts  and  buildings,  they  are  harmonious.  The  long 
and  slow  passage  of  time  seems,  in  some  subtle  way  not 
to  be  defined,  to  have  resolved  all  the  discords  once 
harshly  produced  by  barbarous  man  an"d  by  barbarous 
nature.  These  ruins  are  very  calm.  They  are  bringers 
of  peace  to  the  spirit.  They  do  not  amaze  too  much, 
nor  do  they  sadden.  Indeed,  they  rather  reassure,  as 
the  sun  does,  hinting  at  stabilities  eternal,  rectifying — 
how,  we  do  not  exactly  know  —  our  pitiful  human  im- 
aginings, which  travel  too  often  toward  darkness. 

It  has  been  stated,  and  is  often  accepted  as  true,  that 
the  ruins  of  the  temples  of  the  Sun  and  of  Bacchus  date 
from  the  second  century  of  the  Christian  era,  but,  ac- 
cording to  the  Syrian  writer  Michel  Alouf,  who  is  a  na- 
tive of  Baalbec,  and  who,  with  loving  assiduity,  has 
devoted  an  immense  amount  of  his  time  to  the  patient 


)\  E  IN  THE  EX^i.^^..  ..^ 
TEMPLE  AREA,  BAALBEG. 


From  a  photograph,  copyright,  by  Vndcrwood  &  Liiderwood 


BAALBEC,  THE  TOWN  OF  THE  SUN 

study  of  all  documents  bearing  upon  the  history  of  his 
birthplace,  this  is  not  the  fact.  Inscriptions  have  been 
discovered  by  the  German  excavators,  who  have  done 
much  good  work  at  Baalbec,  which  prove  that  the  build- 
ing of  the  temples  was  begun  by  the  Romans  in  the  first 
century  after  Christ.  John  Malala  of  Antioch  was  there- 
fore mistaken  in  attributing  all  the  credit  for  their  erec- 
tion to  Antoninus  Pius.  The  great  temple,  though 
identified  with  the  sun-god,  was  dedicated  to  all  the  gods 
of  Heliopolis,  the  smaller  temple  to  Bacchus.  Before 
they  became  ruins,  Arabs  had  turned  them  into  a  for- 
tress. 

"THE  WONDERFUL  SYRIAN  SPRING" 

But  the  fact  which  I  always  loved  to  keep  in  my  mind 
at  Baalbec  in  the  wonderful  Syrian  spring  was  this: 
that  before  Greek  and  Roman  times  Baalbec  was  the 
sacred  city  of  the  East  and  the  home  of  the  adoration 
of  the  sun,  and  that  Greeks  and  Romans,  when  they  had 
the  mastery  over  the  Syrian  land,  did  nothing  to  inter- 
fere with  this  old,  established  worship.  On  the  contrary, 
they  adored  Jupiter  the  Sun  in  the  Roman  empire,  and 
statues  of  Baalbec-Jupiter  have  been  found  at  Nihaand 
elsewhere. 

Minutely  to  describe  Baalbec  would  be  merely  to  re- 
peat in  other  words  information  that  can  be  obtained  in 
many  guide-books.  The  effect  of  it  in  springtime  is 
extraordinarily  beautiful. 

19 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

In  the  narrow  upland  valley,  some  four  thousand  feet 
above  the  level  of  the  sea,  between  the  ranges  of  moun- 
tains, embraced  by  multitudes  of  slim  and  white-flow- 
ering trees, —  the  very  soul  of  spring  made  manifest, — 
rise  the  huge,  uneven  walls  of  Baalbec,  broken  in  many 
places,  but  majestically  solid,  as  if  built  to  confront  and 
defy  not  only  the  mightiest  assaults  of  men,  but  the  in- 
sidious action  of  time  —  or  even  of  eternity.  They  cover 
a  great  area,  and  conceal  the  courts  within ;  but  they 
allow  one  side  of  the  Temple  of  Bacchus  to  be  seen, 
with  a  leaning  column,  and  they  are  victoriously  chal- 
lenged by  the  six  marvelous  columns  of  the  Temple  of 
the  Sun,  the  glory  of  Baalbec,  the  glory,  surely,  of 
Syria,  which  soar  above  them  and  hold  the  eyes  and  the 
imagination.  Wherever  you  stand,  whether  to  the 
southeast,  on  the  dusty  road  that  leads  to  the  village, 
or  among  the  snows  of  the  pear-trees,  or  high  upon  the 
slope  of  the  yellow  hill  that  calmly  watches  over  Baal- 
bec, your  eyes  are  drawn  to  these  columns.  Look  down 
on  them  from  above,  gaze  up  at  them  from  below,  it 
makes  but  little  difference.  They  dominate  you,  as  if 
they  possessed  a  powerful  soul,  as  if  they  possessed  the 
soul  of  the  great  nation  that  once  worshiped  the  sun. 

At  Baalbec,  as  well  as  the  remains  of  the  two  grand 
temples,  and  the  additions  made  by  the  Arabs  for  pur- 
poses unconnected  with  worship,  there  is  a  small,  circu- 
lar Temple  of  Venus,  which  stands  apart  from  the  other 
ruins;  and  there  are  two  spacious  courts  with  many 

20 


BAALBEC,  THE  TOWN  OF  THE  SUN 

exedrae,  or  lateral  chambers.  In  these  courts,  and  every- 
where about  the  remains  of  the  temples,  lie  masses  of 
fallen  masonry;  capitals  carved  with  acanthus  leaves 
and  with  the  heads  of  lions ;  fragments  of  doorways ; 
sections  of  rounded  pillars  and  of  friezes;  bits  of 
architraves;  and  gigantic  blocks  which  look  like  the 
foundation-stones  of  buildings  too  huge  to  have  been 
constructed  by  men. 

There  have  been  many  earthquakes  at  Baalbec,  and 
these  mountainous  heaps  of  stone,  flung  pell-mell  in 
confusion,  suggest  some  great  upheaval  of  nature  rather 
than  any  human  violence.  Nevertheless,  the  tremen- 
dous confusion  everywhere  apparent  does  not  call  forth 
any  answering  turmoil  of  the  spirit.  As  one  wanders 
through  the  ruins,  noting  the  irregular  outlines  of  the 
Propylaea,  shattered  giants  superb  in  their  decadence; 
wondering  why  the  stones  of  the  south  tower,  which 
look  like  a  mysteriously  solidified  and  arrested  cascade, 
do  not  fall  upon  the  turmoil  of  masonry  heaped  below 
like  rocks  on  a  sea-shore;  as  one  gazes  at  the  very 
delicate  shadows  in  the  arena  of  the  Hexagonal  Court, 
at  the  herbage  peeping  out  among  the  blocks  of  almost 
white  stone  near  the  place  where  once  stood  a  statue  of 
Hercules,  at  the  herbage  growing  more  lustily  in  the 
niches  that  are  gray  where  the  sun  does  not  penetrate, 
a  lovely  yellow  beneath  his  beams ;  as  one  stands  be- 
fore the  deserted  chamber  of  the  Roman  priests,  and  lis- 
tens to  the  perpetual  humming  of  the  happy  bees  about 

2  I 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

it,  or  before  the  altar  in  the  great  court  from  which  an 
avenue  of  ruins  leads  the  eyes  to  the  crenelated  outer 
walls,  high  above,  and  far  beyond  which  the  glittering 
snows  look  down ;  as  one  tries  to  decipher  the  features 
of  the  great  god  Baal,  guarded  now  by  a  Roman  eagle, 
or  looks  up  into  the  face  of  Diana,  beneath  whose  ped- 
estal four  faithful  hounds  keep  watch;  as  one  falls  half 
in  love  with  the  girl  carved  on  the  bath  of  the  Roman 
priests,  who  sits  with  her  head  thrown  back  and  a  cu- 
pidon  near  her,  while  close  by  a  woman  takes  her  com- 
panion gently  by  the  neck,  with  a  deliciously  tender 
gesture,  perhaps  to  draw  her  attention  to  the  second 
cupidon  flying  so  lightly  toward  them,  or  is  swept  to  a 
sterner  mood  by  the  sudden  vision  of  helmeted  Mars 
flanked  by  the  heads  of  bulls  —  as  one  looks,  and  pauses, 
and  wanders  on,  a  great  feeling  of  calm  enfolds  him, 
but  of  a  calm  made  light  and  brilliant  by  the  light- 
ness and  brilliance  of  spring.  And  the  beautiful  day 
wears  on,  and  its  gradual  passing  is  marked  by  the 
stones  of  Baalbec.  They  were  brought  together  to  do 
homage  to  the  sun,  and  the  sun  has  them  in  possession. 
Upon  the  six  Columns  of  Jupiter  the  Sun  one  may  read 
the  record  of  dawn,  of  noon,  of  the  mystic  approach  of 
night. 

The  so-called  "small  Temple  of  Bacchus"  is  the  best 
preserved  of  the  ruins  of  Baalbec,  and  is  perhaps  the 
most  perfect  ancient  building  in  Syria.  Surrounded  by 
fallen  splendors,  it  seems,  compared  with  them,  with 

22 


.\  I  ,.,leriv.jud 


IN  TKRIOR.  OF  THE  TEMPLE  OF   BACCHUS,    BAALBKC 


BAALBEC,  THE  TOWN  OF  THE  SUN 

its  grand  columns,  its  splendidly  ornamented  doorway, 
carved  with  flowers,  fruits,  vine-leaves,  cupids  bearing 
bunches  of  grapes  and  ears  of  corn,  its  sections  of  ex- 
quisitely sculptured  ceiling,  its  double  frieze,  its  naos, 
with  graceful,  fluted  pilasters,  its  delicately  graven, 
dancing  bacchantes,  cupids,  and  fauns,  eagles,  animals, 
and  gods,  an  almost  complete  sanctuary,  although  it  is 
of  course  but  the  ornate  specter  of  what  it  was  before 
earthquakes  shook,  and  Arabs  overbuilt,  and  Turks 
barbarously  defaced,  it.  In  color  it  is  lovely  —  a  rich, 
warm,  lustrous  gold,  in  places  deepening  to  a  golden 
brown.  And  against  this  gold  and  golden  brown,  as  if 
to  emphasize  them  and  to  continue  here  the  color  scheme 
of  Baalbec  in  springtime,  there  is  set  a  white  stair- 
case of  narrow  steps  which  leads  up  to  the  temple's 
sanctuary.  Upon  two  pilasters  here  are  engraved  fig- 
ures of  women  dancing  the  danse  dii  ventre.  In  the 
north  wall  there  is  a  tablet  inserted  to  commemorate  the 
visit  of  the  German  Emperor,  who  encamped  within 
the  ruins  in  the  great  court  when  he  came  to  Syria  as 
the  guest  of  Abdul-Hamid.  The  general  effect  of  this 
temple,  seen  from  without,  is  of  massive  dignity,  of  solid 
nobility  and  majesty,  rather  than  of  sensitiveness  and 
grace.  From  the  northwest  it  looks  specially  fine,  with 
the  nine  upstanding  columns.  Seen  from  the  front,  it 
shows  more  fearlessly  its  ruin.  One  of  the  most  glori- 
ous bits  is  the  east  portico,  with  the  four  close-set  col- 
umns, two  smooth,  two  fluted.     The  interior,  which  is 

25 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

open  to  the  sky,  although  the  outer  wall  of  the  temple 
is  connected  with  the  entablature  above  the  columns  by 
a  handsome  ceiling  of  carved  stone,  contains  a  mass  of 
delicious  detail.  And  here  grace  and  almost  tender  re- 
finement are  happily  allied  with  massive  power.  Much 
of  the  carving  of  leaf  and  flower  and  fruit,  of  vase  and 
fir-cone  and  bird,  is  quite  lovely  and  amazingly  intri- 
cate and  delicate;  and  the  breaking  up  of  the  walls 
into  double  rows  of  niches,  divided  by  fluted  pillars, 
with  elaborately  carved  capitals,  produces  a  singularly 
rich,  yet  almost  austerely  pure,  effect. 

This  temple  stands  on  a  high  platform  of  huge  blocks 
of  rugged  stone.  I  paused  by  the  solitary  column 
which  —  for  how  many  years!  —  has  leaned  perilously, 
so  it  seems,  against  the  smooth  outer  wall  of  the  tem- 
ple, resting  on  the  edge  of  its  base,  and  I  looked  down 
at  the  world  beneath.  Immediately  below  me  was  a 
little  orchard  of  tiny  and  frail  trees,  some  just  springing 
into  leaf,  others  just  breaking  into  blossoms  of  virginal 
white.  There  was  something  almost  pathetic  in  this 
minute  vision  of  half-frightened,  half-daring  spring, 
timorously  creeping  to  the  foot  of  the  giant  mass  of 
stone,  as  if  to  shroud  its  savage  strength  in  a  robe  of 
green  and  white,  to  baptize  it  with  youthful  perfume. 
Beyond  the  trees  were  the  mauve,  yellowish-white,  and 
gray-mauve  houses  of  the  town  of  the  sun,  with  pale- 
red  roofs  and  arched  central  windows,  backed  by  low 
green  and  brown  hills,  tranquil  and  tender  in  the  soft- 

26 


THK    eon    ^'■^       Ol-     llil     -rV.  ■RAAT.BF.C 


BAALBEC,  THE  TOWN  OF  THE  SUN 

ening  light  of  the  waning  afternoon.  Some  birds  that 
looked  like  swallows  wheeled  perpetually  in  the  light- 
blue  sky,  and  upon  the  topmost  golden  stones  of  a  partly 
ruined  wall,  raised  up  by  Arabs,  wild  pigeons  perched, 
and  preened  themselves,  happy  perhaps  in  the  company 
of  the  winged  geniuses,  the  winged  loves,  the  harmless 
eagles,  not  far  below  them. 

"THE  SIX  MIGHTY  COLUMNS  OF    THE  SUN  " 

But  more  wonderful  than  this  temple;  than  the  little 
Temple  of  Venus ;  than  the  Arab  fortifications  of  the 
time  of  Bahram  Schah ;  than  the  trilithon,  with  its  three 
terrific  blocks  of  stone,  each  one  of  them  over  sixty-three 
feet  in  length ;  than  the  Hexagon  and  Great  Courts, 
sometimes  called  the  Forecourt  and  the  Court  of  the 
Altar  —  more  wonderful  indeed  than  anything  else  in 
Baalbec,  are  the  six  mighty  Columns  of  the  Sun. 

These  columns  now  represent  that  vast  Temple  of 
the  Sun  and  of  the  ancient  gods  of  Heliopolis  which  was 
once  the  glory  of  Syria.  The  building  that  belonged  to 
them  —  remembering  them  clearly,  I  cannot  say  to  which 
they  belonged —  is  now  merely  a  mass  of  ruins.  Ac- 
cording to  some  writers,  these  columns  are  over  seventy 
feet  high ;  according  to  others,  not  quite  seventy.  The 
effect  of  them,  when  they  are  seen  from  close  beneath 
the  great  wall  which  supports  them,  is  that  they  are 
towering  into  heaven.  Each  of  them  is  of  one  size  from 
base  to  capital.     The  wall  on  which  they  are  set  is  con- 

3  .29  • 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

siderably  higher  than  the  height  of  a  tall  man.  Three 
immense  fragments  of  stone  go  to  the  making  of  each 
column.  The  capitals  are  Corinthian,  surmounted  by  a 
glorious  architrave,  with  entablature,  frieze,  and  cornice. 
Upon  this  there  is  elaborate  and  very  fine  carving,  show- 
ing acanthus  leaves  and  roses,  with  little  lions,  and  also 
some  heads  of  lions  with  open  jaws.  But  it  is  not  de- 
tail that  you  notice,  or  detail  that  you  love,  when  first 
you  stand  before  these  columns.  They  overwhelm  you 
by  the  sum  total  of  their  splendor,  which  is  so  extraor- 
dinary that  it  has  the  blotting-out  power  peculiar  to  the 
tremendous  manifestations  of  man's  creative  genius. 
As  you  look  up  at  them,  you  forget  everything  else  in 
Baalbec.  All  things  around  you  seem  suddenly  to  fade, 
to  grow  thin  and  pale  and  unreal.  These  Columns  of 
the  Sun  dominate  like  the  sun. 

When  the  complete  temple  stood  firm  in  the  ancient 
days,  it  was  surrounded  by  fifty-four  such  columns. 
The  imagination  is  impotent  to  conceive  what  was  the 
effect  of  a  building  so  hemmed  in,  worthy  to  be  so 
guarded.  And  yet  it  seems  to  me  not  improbable  that 
the  present  loneliness  of  these  columns  enhances  the 
vast  impression  which  they  make  upon  the  mind.  They 
are  giants  in  a  world  that  owns  no  other  giants,  stand- 
ing up,  as  they  do,  against  the  wonder  of  the  spring, 
with  no  interposing  walls  to  shut  away  from  them  the 
far-off  mountains,  nature's  giants,  as  they  are  man's. 
Some  ruins  completely  satisfy  as  ruins.     Others  make 

30 


TEMPLE  OF  VENUS.  liAALBEC 

-    ;       t:-. 


Iruiu  ^  (jhotograph,  copyright,  190$.  by  Underwood  i:  Underwood 


BAALBEC,  THE  TOWN  OF  THE  SUN 

one  sigh  for  a  lost  perfection.  The  Columns  of  the  Sun 
at  Baalbec  call  up  only  the  secret  murmur,  "It  is 
enough." 

If  we  compare  them  with  the  columns  outside  the 
Temple  of  Bacchus,  which  have  as  background  the  tem- 
ple wall,  we  are  able  to  realize,  I  think,  that  certain  ad- 
vantages flow  sometimes  even  from  the  blind  fury  of 
vandals.  The  Columns  of  Bacchus  are  similar  in  shape 
to  those  of  the  sun.  They  are  only  some  six  feet  shorter. 
And  yet,  grand  though  they  are,  how  almost  paltry  they 
seem  when  compared  with  their  desolate  neighbors! 
For  they  fall  into  place  as  an  important  part,  but  only  a 
part,  of  the  noble  detail  of  a  building.  One  can  admire 
them,  wonder  at  them,  but  one  can  forget  them.  Never 
could  one  forget  the  Columns  of  the  Sun.  Once  seen, 
they  stand  out  forever  in  the  memory.  I  have  called 
them  golden  columns,  and  I  have  spoken  of  the  golden 
stones  of  Baalbec.  Go  to  Baalbec,  and  you  will  recog- 
nize the  justice  of  the  description.  You  will  see  there 
stone  that  is  white,  gray  with  a  grain  of  black,  earth- 
colored,  yellow,  yellow-brown.  But  when  the  sun  is 
shining,  and  at  certain  hours  of  the  day,  much  of  the 
stone  is  of  a  strangely  rich  and  glorious  golden  color, 
sometimes  with  hints  of  red  in  it,  such  as  one  sees  in 
the  skin  of  an  orange.  The  natives  say  that  it  is  the 
prolonged  action  of  the  weather  —  of  wind  and  rain,  of 
snow  and  sun  —  that  has  tinted  the  masonry.  And  they 
showed  me  stone  recently  released  from  the  embrace  of 

33 


THE    HOLY   LAND 

the  earth  by  German  excavators.  This  was  pale,  in- 
deed, almost  white.  A  quantity  of  it  can  be  seen  in  the 
staircase  at  the  end  of  the  Temple  of  Bacchus.  Com- 
pare it  with  the  stone  of  which  the  Columns  of  the  Sun 
are  composed,  and  you  will  see  how  blessed  it  is  to  be 
weather-beaten  in  Syria. 

It  is  as  if  the  sun  had  resolved  to  set  his  seal  upon 
the  remains  of  the  building  erected  in  his  honor,  and  not 
only  to  set  his  seal,  but  also  to  record  each  day  the  fleet- 
ing hours  of  gold.  For  almost  as  Eastern  carpets 
change  when  held  in  different  lights,  or  when  suddenly 
stretched,  and  then  allowed  to  fall  into  deep  or  shallow 
folds,  these  columns  change  mysteriously  in  obedience 
to  the  variations  in  the  light  which  falls  upon  them. 
They  have  not  of  course  the  glowing  mystery  of  amber, 
because  they  are  not  transparent,  but  they  have  some- 
thing of  amber's  loveliness  when  exposed  to  a  soft  yet 
brilliant  radiance;  and  they  seem  to  divest  themselves 
of  the  uncompromising  character  of  stone  under  the  in- 
fluence of  the  sun. 

SUNSET  AT  BAALBEC 

When  the  glory  of  full  day  begins  to  fade  along  the 
upland  valley,  and  strange  colors  appear  in  the  sky,  do 
not  leave  the  Columns  of  the  Sun.  Go  to  the  right, 
facing  them,  mount  up  a  little,  sit  on  one  of  the  fallen 
slabs  of  masonry  not  far  from  the  staircase  of  Jupiter 
and  the  altar  of  the  burnt  offerings,  and  await  the  slow 

34 


BAALBEC,  THE  TOWN  OF  THE  SUN 

coming  of  twilight.  Through  the  spaces  between  the 
columns  you  can  see  part  of  the  ruined  fortress  of  Sheik 
Abdullah,  eight  hundred  years  old;  to  the  left  is  the 
Temple  of  Bacchus ;  behind  are  a  wall,  some  low%  white 
houses,  some  yellow  hills,  and  the  snows.  A  great  owl, 
which  seems  to  make  his  dwelling-place  somewhere  in 
the  splendid  cornice  above  the  columns,  flies  slowly  out 
each  evening  when  the  sun  is  declining.  Slowly  and 
heavily  he  starts  on  a  journey  over  the  orchards  where 
the  Syrian  children  are  laughing  and  playing.  The 
fires  of  the  sunset  increase.  The  columns  glow.  The 
yellow  of  the  stone  holds  red  lights.  The  gray  of  the 
stone  reveals  bright  veins  of  gold. 

At  this  hour  the  majesty  of  Baalbec  is  at  its  height. 
Always  the  cradle  of  sun-worship  from  the  earliest  times 
of  antiquity,  it  is  full  to  this  day  of  the  spell  of  the  sun. 
And  do  not  his  worshipers  still  come  there  sometimes 
from  far  over  the  seas? 

As  the  evening  draws  on,  the  inhabitants  of  Baalbec 
go  quietly  home  from  the  ruins.  The  twitter  of  the 
Syrian  pipe  is  silent,  and  the  worshiper  from  afar  may 
enjoy  a  complete  solitude.  In  the  gentler,  the  more 
tranquil  light  that  pervades  the  upland  valley,  the  remains 
of  temples  and  towers,  of  altars,  stairways,  portals,  and 
fortifications  look  more  mysterious  and  more  vast.  The 
terrific  walls  seem  to  increase  in  height  and  in  solidity 
as  the  shadows  gather  more  thickly  about  them.  The 
heavy  superstructure  of  stone,  like  a  misplaced  section 

35 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

of  some  battlemented  castle  such  as  the  castle  on  the 
height  near  Caesarea  Philippi,  which  frowns  above  the 
columns  on  the  left  of  the  portal  to  the  Temple  of 
Bacchus,  is  no  longer  merely  barbaric.  There  is  some- 
thing sinister  in  its  dark  outline  relieved  sharply  against 
the  sky.  The  noble  doorway  in  the  northeast  corner  of 
the  Great  Court  shows  an  interior  blackness  that  is  al- 
most like  the  blackness  of  a  dungeon,  in  which  the  half- 
seen  shapes  of  fallen  fragments  of  stone  seem  crouching 
like  things  in  fear.  Above  it  the  tufts  of  herbage  that 
grow  on  each  side  of  the  niche,  with  its  projecting  and 
arched  cornice,  make  soft  clouds  of  delicate  gloom.  In 
the  Hexagonal  Forecourt  and  the  Court  of  the  Altar 
there  is  still  a  brightness  of  day,  but  the  low  and  wide 
archways  in  the  surrounding  wall  of  the  former  contain 
patches  of  blackness  that  seem  to  have  been  cut  from 
the  garments  of  night.  And  from  the  latter  stretches 
away  a  wonder  of  broken  beauty,  partly  closed  in  by 
the  battlements  of  the  Arabs.  Light  and  shadow  play 
almost  mystically  over  the  vast  expanse  of  the  ruined 
Acropolis.  The  shadow  has  taken  possession  of  the 
Columns  of  the  Sun,  is  turning  their  gold  to  black,  but 
the  flat  pavement  near  the  remnants  of  the  Basilica  of 
Theodosius  gleams  with  a  primrose  yellow,  and  the  drab 
walls  have  become  a  somber  brown.  Looking  east,  be- 
tween the  Propylaea,  the  tiny  branches  of  some  fruit- 
trees  make  a  network  of  jet  black  against  the  clear  saffron 
of  the  sky.     Near  them  a  doorway,  that  in  the  distance 

36 


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BAALBEC,  THE  TOWN  OF  THE  SUN 

looks  like  the  minute  opening  in  a  fairy's  house,  holds 
an  oblong  of  light  that  suggests  the  light  of  heaven. 

Before  the  darkness  of  the  swiftly  approaching  night 
comes  down  upon  the  town  of  the  sun,  and  the  moon 
and  the  silence  hold  it  through  the  hours  of  sleep,  pass 
once  more  across  the  Court  of  the  Altar,  between  the 
blocks  of  masonry,  the  piles  of  stone  bullets  once  used 
by  the  Arabs  as  missiles,  the  broken  columns  of  Assuan 
granite,  and  the  baths  of  the  Roman  priests,  and  mount 
up  to  the  high  platform,  or  terrace,  that  commands  a 
great  view  of  the  valley.  Far  down  below  the  white 
orchards  lie.  The  snows  of  the  Lebanon  mountains  for 
a  moment  are  touched  with  rose.  Some  stones  of  the 
ruins  still  glow  with  gold,  and  some  of  the  nearer  hills 
are  a  tawny  yellow.  In  the  distance  the  orchards  melt 
away  into  a  dusky  green  of  crops  —  barley  and  young 
corn.  Farther  away  the  green  in  its  turn  melts  into 
red  browns  and  into  varying  shades  of  yellow  that 
strongly  suggest  the  desert.  Very  calm  are  the  hills  in 
this  evening  hour.  The  valley  of  Baal  seems  a  pro- 
tected place,  a  safe  and  concealed  hermitage  hidden 
away  from  the  world,  where  the  sun-god  loves  to  come 
secretly  to  behold  the  place  of  his  antique  worship. 

But  the  gold  fades  from  the  stones  of  the  temples. 
All  the  red  lights  are  gone  from  the  Columns  of  the 
Sun.  Transformed,  made  almost  tragic,  they  stand  up 
against  a  sky  in  which  the  first  star  is  shining.  Ghostly 
pale  are  the  orchards.     The  children's  laughter  has  died 

39 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

away.  Down  below,  from  the  shadows,  a  woman's 
voice  cries  in  Arabic,  "Come  in!  It  is  time  to  sleep." 
Some  little,  naughty  child  is  hiding  from  the  veiled 
mother  among  the  pear-trees.  A  bell  chimes  from  the 
village. 

And  the  caravan  bells  ?  It  is  so  quiet,  so  breathlessly 
still,  in  the  valley  of  Baal,  that  I  can  surely  hear  them, 
too,  far  off  in  the  lovely  evening,  chiming,  chiming  by 
the  rushing  Barada,  between  the  silver  poplars,  as  the 
camels  go  softly  on  toward  the  minarets  of  Damascus. 
They  are  calling,  and  I  must  follow,  to  the  city  of  the 
narghile  and  the  striped  sofas,  that  ancient  city  which  is 
"the  head  of  Syria." 


40 


THE  SPELL  OF  DAMASCUS 


THE  SWEETMEAT   BAZAAR,  DAMASCUS 


II 

THE  SPELL  OF  DAMASCUS 

DAMASCUS  is  one  of  the  most  ancient  cities  in 
the  world.  It  looks  one  of  the  newest.  The 
approach  to  it  is  strangely  alluring,  but  the 
traveler  is  deceived:  there  is  nothing  to  lead  him  to 
suppose  that  he  is  nearing  the  "great  and  sacred  city" 
of  Julian,  a  capital  to  this  day  full  of  religious  fanatics, 
whose  adoration  is  mingled  with  the  robust  desire  to 
exterminate.  Rather  does  he  seem  to  be  enticed  onward 
toward  some  town  of  the  sirens,  where  all  the  pleasures 
await  him. 

Long  before  the  great  plain  in  which  Damascus  lies 
opens  out  from  the  Gorge  of  the  Barada, —  that  "golden 
stream"  of  the  Greeks  which  to  this  day  is  the  joy  of 
the  dark-eyed  Easterns  who  dwell  in  the  earthly  para- 
dise ;  long  before  the  green  cloud  of  the  woods  which 
encircle  it  floats  into  sight  under  the  radiant  sky ;  long 
before  the  first  minaret  lifts  itself  up  toward  heaven,  he 
who  goes  to  Damascus  is  thrilled  with  anticipation.  It 
is  the  Barada  which  excites  in  him  this  mood  of  expec- 
tant ardor.  Many  miles  before  Damascus  is  reached  he 
is  in  sight  of  a  stream  that  looks  curiously  mischievous 

45 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

and  happy  as  it  winds  between  the  hills  through  an 
avenue  of  poplars.  At  first  it  is  small  and  furtive,  as  if 
bent  on  keeping  its  frolicsome  joy  to  itself.  It  seems 
to  wish  to  go  on  its  way  in  hiding;  but  it  chuckles  irre- 
pressibly,  like  a  child  that  cannot  contain  its  pleasure. 
It  knows  it  is  going  to  Damascus,  but  it  does  not  wish 
you  to  share  its  knowledge.  The  red  and  the  golden 
hills  enfold  it  closer  and  closer,  like  arms  of  the  desert 
determined  to  silence  its  silvery  voice  forever,  to  arrest 
its  dancing  feet,  by  crushing  its  life  out  in  a  long  and 
sterile  embrace.  But  it  seems  only  to  gain  in  courage 
and  mischief  in  the  presence  of  danger.  It  ceases  to  be 
furtive ;  it  forgets  to  hide  its  sweet  knowledge ;  it  be- 
comes friskily  defiant  as  it  now  boldly  dances  onward. 
And  the  silver  poplars  increase  about  it,  as  if  to  afford 
it  protection  against  the  cruel  but  beautiful  hills. 

Golden  and  red,  silver  and  silver-green  is  the  way 
that  leads  to  Damascus,  and  the  Barada  dances,  dances 
along  it  till  the  traveler's  heart  dances  too,  in  sympathy 
with  the  stream's  secret,  which  the  stream  can  conceal 
no  longer.  "I  am  going  to  Damascus"  becomes  "We 
are  going  to  Damascus,"  and  at  last  the  whole  soul  of 
the  traveler  is  aflame  with  anticipation.  He  remembers 
that  for  long  ages  the  Arabs  have  called  the  city  under 
the  sacred  Jebel  Kasyun  one  of  the  four  terrestrial  para- 
dises. He  remembers  that  it  is  the  fabled  city  of  foun- 
tains, of  languid  gardens,  of  red  roses  which  pour  forth 
the  sweetest  perfume  emitted  by  flowers  that  do  not 
grow  in  the  gardens  of  heaven.     He  remembers  that 

46 


THE  SPELL  OF  DAMASCUS 

there  the  Indian  pilgrims,  returning  from  Mecca,  rest 
under  the  arcades  of  the  Mosque  of  Sultan  Selim  and 
anticipate  the  joys  that  are  promised  hereafter  to  the 
faithful  Moslem.  Mohammed,  when  a  camel-driver, 
looked  at  Damascus  from  the  mountain,  and  refused  to 
enter  it,  lest  he  should  be  content  there  to  resign  the 
glories  of  paradise.  But  the  less  austere  traveler,  hur- 
ried along  by  the  hurrying  stream,  as  if  hand  in  hand 
with  a  wildly  joyous  child,  comes  at  last  into  the  plain 
where  the  great,  green  glades  stretch  out  toward  the 
Syrian  desert.  He  sees  the  Minaret  of  the  Bride  and 
the  dome  of  the  Omayyade  Mosque.  He  hears  the  soft 
murmur  of  waters  threading  their  way  beneath  the 
branches  of  fruit-trees,  and  he  thinks,  perhaps,  too  soon, 
"this  is  the  Promised  Land." 

Damascus  has  a  spell.  Jerusalem  is  austere.  Da- 
mascus, though  sacred,  is  seductive,  a  city  in  which  to 
sink  down  and  to  forget.  And  so,  after  all,  is  the  trav- 
eler entirely  deceived  ?  Silken  garment  and  hair  shirt 
—  so  I  think  of  Damascus  and  Jerusalem,  cities  repre- 
sentative of  two  religions,  of  the  faith  that  promises 
sensual  joys,  and  of  the  faith  that  bids  its  followers  soar 
above  the  raptures  of  the  flesh  into  the  rarified  air  where 
the  spirit  can  breathe  and  be  strong. 

Damascus  is  for  the  Moslem;  Jerusalem,  despite  the 
growing  dominion  of  the  Jew,  to  whom  has  come  much 
power  in  the  city  of  the  stones  of  the  Temple,  but  also 
of  the  Holy  Sepulcher,  is  for  the  Christian. 

The  view  of  Damascus  from  the  mountain  where  Mo- 

47 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

hammed  made  his  great  renunciation  is  one  of  the  mar- 
velous views  of  the  world.  Again  and  again  I  deserted 
the  mosques,  the  bazaars,  the  marble  baths,  the  courts 
of  the  fountains,  the  shadowy  khans  and  the  gardens  by 
the  streams,  for  that  bare  height  on  which  Abraham  is 
said  to  have  had  the  unity  of  God  revealed  to  him. 

A  "CITY  OF  magic" 

An  Oriental  city  of  magic  called  up  by  a  slave  of  the 
lamp  to  realize  one's  dream  of  the  Orient;  a  city  ethere- 
ally lovely,  exquisitely  Eastern,  ephemeral,  to  be  blown 
away  by  a  breath  like  a  tuft  of  thistle-down,  not  white, 
but  delicately  pale  with  a  pallor  holding  the  faintest  hint 
of  a  sea-shell  flush ;  a  city  slender,  calm,  almost  mystic  in 
its  fragile  grace,  set  in  the  heart  of  a  great  wonder  of 
green,  a  maze  of  bright  and  ardent  woods  beyond  which 
lie  the  desert  spaces  —  this  is  Damascus  from  the  moun- 
tain of  Jebel  Kasyun.  It  holds  one  almost  breathless, 
seen  thus  from  afar.  Too  perfect  it  looks  to  be  a  con- 
tinuing city.  Surely  a  wind  will  come  from  the  cruel 
desert,  and — p'ff! — it  will  be  no  more.  Like  gossamer 
away  will  fly  those  multitudes  of  tenderly  fragile  mina- 
rets, those  little  cupolas,  those  flat-roofed  houses  that 
seem  to  have  no  solidity,  to  be  made  of  pearl  or  some 
elfin  substance.  And  the  woods  will  hold  no  longer 
their  Eastern  vision,  and  the  waters  will  sing  no  longer 
to  the  mirage  that  forever  has  faded.  And  perhaps  the 
wind  does  come,  from  the  Great  Syrian  desert  or  from 

48 


IHK   COURT  OF  THE  OMAYYADE  MOSQUE,  DAMASCUS 


THE  SPELL  OF  DAMASCUS 

the  glittering  crest  of  Hermon.  And,  lo  !  the  vision 
does  not  fly  before  it  out  of  the  heart  of  the  woods. 
The  wind  passes  and  dies  at  the  edge  of  the  sands,  or 
returns  unappeased  to  the  snows.  And  still  the  ethereal 
city  is  there,  a  dream  that  has  stayed ;  is  there,  keeping 
you  motionless,  entranced  by  its  tender  beauty.  And 
still  the  waters  are  singing  like  happy  lovers  to  the 
minarets  of  marble. 

That  is  one  aspect  of  Damascus.    Let  us  take  another. 

The  great  Omayyade  Mosque  in  the  midst  of  the 
city  has  three  minarets.  From  the  summit  of  the 
Medinet-el-Arus,  or  Minaret  of  the  Bride,  there  is  a 
view  over  the  whole  of  Damascus.  The  town  of  a 
dream  is  there  spread  out  beneath  you,  but  it  has 
changed,  has  become  real,  definite,  an  immense  maze  of 
poplars  and  dried  mud  houses,  and  of  mosques,  from 
which  rise  the  strange  and  nasal  cries  of  the  East. 
Tunis,  seen  from  the  roof  of  the  Bey's  palace,  is  a  daz- 
zling ivory  white.  Damascus  is  only  pale.  Some  of 
the  roofs  of  its  houses  are  tiled  with  red.  Most  of  them 
are  flat.  The  prevalent  color  is  a  faint,  sandy  yellow, 
very  pallid,  broken  up  by  the  red  roofs  and  by  some  white 
facades.  The  houses  are  crammed  closely  together. 
A  few  trees,  as  if  with  an  obstinate  effort,  thrust  them- 
selves up  above  the  buildings.  And  these  trees  are 
mostly  large  and  dusty  cypresses,  not  standing  in  com- 
panies, but  solitary,  severe.  The  dark-green  notes  of 
color  are  a  memorable  feature  in  Damascus.     There 

51 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

are  scarcely  any  palms.  From  the  Minaret  of  the  Bride 
I  saw  but  one,  a  date-palm  that  looked  unhealthy  and 
out  of  place.  Seen  at  close  quarters,  the  city  looks 
new,  and  preserves  its  oddly  ephemeral  appearance.  A 
breath  might  have  no  effect  on  it,  one  thinks,  but  a  hard 
push  would  surely  overthrow  it.  Running  through  it 
are  some  long  Fafnir-like  monsters,  that  lift  themselves 
high  above  the  houses,  round-backed,  lead-colored, 
hideous.  These  are  the  wooden,  tunnel-shaped  roofs, 
sheeted  with  lead,  that  cover  in  the  famous  bazaars 
from  the  burning  rays  of  the  sun.  Minarets  rise  on  all 
sides,  some  of  them  very  beautiful  —  striped  minarets, 
minarets  dark  green,  yellow,  gray  and  white,  or  bril- 
liant with  Oriental  tiles.  And  all  over  the  city  are 
squat  cupolas,  like  rows  of  turned-down  cups  set  close 
together.     These  are  the  roofs  of  Arab  baths. 

Upon  the  housetops  of  Damascus,  though  many  of 
them  are  evidently  used  as  terraces,  one  sees  but  few 
people.  Now  and  then  a  veiled  woman  appears  for  a 
moment;  now  and  then  a  child  runs  out,  waving  its  little 
arms.  But  most  of  the  inhabitants  are  either  within,  or 
are  swarming  through  the  narrow  and  busy  streets, 
which  teem  till  after  nightfall  with  a  throng  in  which  an 
European  is  seldom  visible.  Into  these  streets  you  can- 
not see  from  the  Minaret  of  the  Bride.  Almost  the 
whole  of  the  interior  of  the  city  is  hidden  from  you. 
Only  two  or  three  courtyards,  with  orange-trees  and 
fountains,  show  themselves  with  a  furtive  coquetry  to 

52 


THE  SPELL  OF  DAMASCUS 

the  eyes ;  and  the  white  barracks  boldly,  almost  impu- 
dently, reveal  themselves,  with  the  Barrack  Square,  in 
which  doll-like  soldiers  in  uniforms  that  look  black  are 
doing  their  drill  in  the  sunshine.  A  sound  of  drums  rolls 
up  to  the  summit  of  the  minaret,  and  the  occasional  call 
of  a  bugle. 

Everywhere  in  the  distance,  beyond  the  houses,  the 
lovely  green  glades  that  are  the  pride  of  Damascus  close 
softly  in.  The  Anti-Libanus  mountains,  which  seem 
very  close  in  the  clear  and  radiant  atmosphere,  lift  up 
their  shining  snows.  Near  them  are  hard,  round,  yellow- 
ish-white hills,  with  native  villages  here  and  there  huddled 
closely  against  them.  Farther  off  are  low,  romantic, 
cinnamon-colored  hills  melting  away  into  spaces  that 
look  like  the  beginning  of  the  desert — spaces  that  seem 
to  be  trembling  gently,  as  watery  mirage  seems  to 
tremble  ghostlike  amid  the  sands.  For  the  great  desert 
is  very  near  to  Damascus  —  so  near  to  it  that  it  is  like 
a  town  set  in  a  lovely  oasis,  a  paradise  of  shade  and 
waters,  of  roses  and  singing  birds,  through  which  there 
sometimes  filters  a  breath  from  the  burning  wastes,  like 
a  Bedouin  passing  through  a  throng  of  chattering  towns- 
folk. 

THE  TRUE  ORIENT 

Damascus  is  still  thoroughly  Oriental.  Cairo  has  be- 
come horribly  official  and  cosmopolitan ;  Algiers  and 
Tunis    are   very  French;    Jerusalem    is  the  home    of 

53 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

religious  sects;  Beirut  contains  numbers  of  Italians, 
Maltese,  Greeks,  and  Americans:  but  the  fez  prevails 
in  the  streets  and  bazaars  of  Damascus,  where  once,  dur- 
ing a  four-hour  walk  through  the  principal  quarters,  I 
did  not  meet  one  man  who  was  not  an  Eastern  or  see 
one  house  which  looked  European.  Even  the  trams 
which,  alas!  much  against  the  will  of  many  of  the 
Damascenes,  have  been  introduced  into  the  city,  and 
which  run  out  slowly  toward  the  village  of  Es-Sale- 
hiyeh,  scarcely  interfere  with  the  Eastern  atmosphere. 
They  are  so  small,  so  dusty,  so  desert  yellow,  contain 
so  few  persons  behind  their  fluttering  curtains,  and 
creep  so  humbly,  almost  as  if  ashamed,  upon  their  way, 
that  one  scarcely  notices  their  presence.  The  bulk  of 
the  citizens  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  them,  prefer- 
ring to  walk,  to  drive  in  the  excellent  carriages,  built  in 
the  city  and  drawn  by  handsome  horses,  or  to  ride  when 
going  about  their  affairs.  For  they  love  not  change  of 
any  kind,  and  though  generally  very  polite  and  even 
helpful  to  travelers,  are  proud,  often  fanatical,  and  in- 
clined to  be  thoroughly  satisfied  with  themselves  and 
whatwas  good  enough  for  their  forefathers.  The  grant- 
ing of  the  Constitution  to  the  Turkish  Empire,  instead 
of  being  received  with  general  joy  in  Damascus,  horri- 
fied many  worthy  citizens.  And  though  I  heard  public 
orations  expressive  of  gratification  at  the  new  freedom 
loudly  applauded  by  Moslems  in  the  circus,  there  is 
certainly  in  Damascus,  or  was  when  I  was  there,  a  large 

54 


WpfijivT    TUf    I    oi  r^vV  .\1">K    (II.      I'fTV    (iM\\'N'\'nF    \I(")';f)( 


THE  SPELL  OF  DAMASCUS 

and  influential  section  of  opinion  bitterly  hostile  to  the 
young  Turks  and  all  their  doings. 

But  leaving  politics  and  religion  aside,  and  observing 
the  Damascenes  at  business  and  at  pleasure,  in  street, 
bazaar,  and  garden,  in  the  dancing-houses  and  the  cafes, 
or  galloping  over  the  green,  or  along  the  road  that 
leads  past  the  Tekkiyeh,  or  Pilgrims'  House,  of  Sultan 
Selim  into  the  midst  of  the  woods,  one  is  surprised  by 
their  incessant  activity  in  seeking  for  gain,  and  enter- 
tained by  their  vivacious  delight  in  amusement.  Yet 
they  can  dream.  For  is  not  this  the  town  of  the  nar- 
ghile and  of  the  striped  sofas  ?  The  ideal  dreaming- 
place  of  the  Damascene  is  a  public  garden  or  a  cafe, 
bordered  on  one  side  by  running  water,  and  lavishly 
furnished  with  a  multitude  of  straight-backed,  striped 
sofas,  which  are  stacked  together  anyhow,  under  a  tree 
or  in  a  corner,  in  the  "off-hours"  of  the  day,  and  are 
set  out  in  rows  when  customers  begin  to  pour  in. 

The  gardens  are  often  large.  They  are  quite  uncul- 
tivated, and  know  not  the  green  sward  which  is  so 
grateful  in  Western  gardens.  Big  walnut-trees,  pop- 
lars,—  the  poplar  is  the  principal  tree  in  this  region, — 
the  almond,  and  various  kinds  of  fruit-trees  cast  masses 
of  shade  over  the  wrinkled  earth.  Here  and  there  are 
rough  arbors  made  of  trellis-work,  sometimes  sur- 
rounded by  the  tall  bushes  on  which,  in  their  season, 
flower  the  world-famous  roses  from  which  the  attar  of 
roses  is  distilled.     Beneath  the  arbors  stand  discolored 

SI 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

wooden  tables.  At  the  entrance  there  is  probably  a  low, 
white-plastered  house  for  the  guardian,  with  a  roof  of 
dried  and  beaten  earth  laid  on  poplar  beams.  Near  it 
is  a  fountain. 

A  calm  cheerfulness  pervades  these  pleasaunces. 
People  stroll  in  quietly,  to  squat  on  the  striped  sofas 
and  listen  to  the  murmur  of  the  water  while  they  drink 
a  cup  of  coffee,  a  glass  of  syrup  or  raki,  and  smoke,  of 
course,  the  imposing  narghile,  with  its  long,  red  tube, 
ending  in  green  and  black.  Men  are  not  the  only 
smokers.  I  have  often  seen  Jewesses  in  these  gar- 
dens, fat  matrons  from  the  ghetto,  with  colored  and  fig- 
ured handkerchiefs  tied  over  their  greasily  shining  hair, 
chattering  of  their  families  and  affairs  between  the 
greedily  enjoyed  whiffs.  It  is  the  men  who  are  dreamers. 
The  women  talk  busily.  In  the  cafes  one  sees  no 
women. 

The  typical  cafe  of  Damascus  is  a  long  and  rather 
narrow  shed  formed  by  a  wooden  roof  supported  by 
slender  wooden  pillars,  some  painted,  many  merely  the 
trunks  of  poplars.  Between  the  pillars  hang  by  cords 
immense  lanterns  containing  petroleum  lamps.  There 
are  no  walls.  The  sides  are  open  to  river  and  street. 
The  floor  is  earth.  On  the  side  next  the  street  is  an  iron 
railing  with,  perhaps,  a  few  dusty  shrubs  beside  it.  The 
striped  sofas,  red,  yellow,  and  blue,  with  wooden  frames, 
are  set  out  in  lines.  At  the  end  of  the  cafe  where  you 
enter  there  is  a  ramshackle  wooden  building  in  which 

58 


THE  SPELL  OF  DAMASCUS 

are  kept  the  pipes,  the  glasses,  the  coffee-cups,  the  coffee 
niche  with  its  glowing  embers,  the  dominoes,  back- 
gammon-boards, and  the  gramophone,  which  occasion- 
ally sheds  music  that  seems  to  proceed  from  the  throats 
of  husky  dwarfs  along  the  river-bank  to  gladden  the 
hearts  of  men. 

In  all  Eastern  lands  the  mosques  are  the  chosen 
dreaming-places  of  the  devout,  and  Damascus  contains 
about  two  hundred  and  forty-eight  of  them,  headed  by 
the  great  mosque  which  presides  over  the  city  much  as 
St.  Paul's  Cathedral  presides  over  London.  To  reach 
it  one  goes  through  the  bazaars,  passing  many  shops  in 
which  delicious-looking  foods  of  all  kinds  are  exposed 
for  sale.  In  front  of  the  butchers  are  sheep's  heads, 
calves'  heads,  and  joints  deftly  decorated  with  gold  paper 
and  scarlet  anemones ;  the  confectioners  display  trays 
of  biscuits,  soft  cakes,  and  various  kinds  of  wonderfully 
light  pastry,  sticky  with  honey  and  grape  syrup:  at  the 
entrances  of  the  numberless  eating-houses  are  skewers 
stuck  through  balls  of  fried  and  larded  meat,  strips  of 
fat  lambs'  tails,  soups  of  splendid  colors, — the  coral-red 
soup  beloved  of  the  Eastern  is  to  be  seen  on  all  sides, — 
and  bowls  full  of  savory  messes,  in  which  rice,  cons-cons 
grain,  red  pepper,  spices,  fruit,  mutton,  and  chicken 
mingle  in  a  smooth  and  succulent  mass.  Ice-cream  is 
being  eagerly  bought,  and  on  many  spotlessly  clean 
countersare  arranged  charmingly  shaped  blue-and-white 
bowls  of  sour  milk  and  curds,  ornamented  with  patterns 

59 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

of  rich  cream.  Damascus  must  be  the  epicure's  paradise. 
In  no  other  town  of  East  or  West  have  I  seen  so  many 
alluring  disphiys  of  food.  And  butchers,  bakers,  and 
confectioners  are  artists,  coquettishly  clever  in  arrang- 
ing their  goods  to  tempt  the  most  fastidious  appetite. 
The  little  red  anemone,  be  sure,  is  the  badge  of  a  subtle 
mind  determined  to  take  you  captive. 

THE  GREAT  MOSQUE 

At  the  end  of  a  row  of  bazaars  is  the  very  old  and  very 
fine  principal  gate  of  the  Omayyade  Mosque,  the  great 
mosque.  It  is  sheeted  wMth  brass  on  which  Arabic 
writing  is  graven.  Just  inside,  under  the  high  and  huge 
porch,  lies  Mahmoud,  known  to  every  Damascene. 
Attired  in  an  amazing,  but  really  beautiful,  arrangement 
of  rags,  in  which  almost  every  shade  of  blue  and  pur- 
ple is  represented,  he  is  stretched  prostrate  upon  a  couch, 
with  a  multitude  of  slippers  beside  him.  Without  get- 
ting up,  he  ties  on  your  pair,  and  then  immediately 
relapses  into  what  seems  a  state  of  coma.  Over  an  old 
and  rugged  pavement,  under  arches  of  white  plaster, 
and  between  pillars  of  blackened  stone,  I  entered,  no- 
ticing on  my  left,  let  into  the  wall,  some  marvelous 
blue,  black,  and  purple  Oriental  tiles.  Upon  the  right 
of  the  huge  court  lies  the  mosque,  with  its  lead-cased 
"dome  of  the  vulture,"  with  its  big  columns,  and  im- 
mense, closed  doors  of  light  wood,  arched  and  elabor- 
ately carved  in  their  upper  parts.     The  court,  of  course, 

60 


From  a  pliologtaph,  top\  n^    r,  i  ,        !  \   L  iidcrwoud  A:  Underwood 


MOHAMMEDAN   CEMETERY,  MINARETS,  AND   ANTI-LEBANON 
MOUNTAINS,  DAM 


THE  SPELL  OF  DAMASCUS 

,  contains  a  fountain  for  ablutions,  protected  by  a  sort  of 
balcony  of  wood  with  wooden  supports,  and  a  lead- 
cased  roof  resting  on  low  columns  and  arches.  On  the 
left  side  of  the  court  is  a  long  arcade  with  round  arches, 
and  at  the  far  end  there  is  also  an  arcade.  The  mosque 
has  three  minarets,  one  of  which,  the  Medinet-el- 
Gharbiyeh,  is  beautiful.  The  other  two  are  the  Bride's 
Minaret,  which  I  ascended,  and  the  Minaret  of  Isa,  or 
Jesus.  The  interior  of  the  mosque,  much  of  which  was 
destroyed  by  fire  about  eleven  years  ago,  is  enormous. 
Upon  the  floor  are  stretched  hundreds  of  small  prayer- 
carpets,  many  of  them  beautiful,  some  gaudy  and  cheap- 
looking.  Above  the  carved  doors  there  is  some  hideous 
painted  glass.  The  wooden  roof,  too,  is  singularly 
ugly,  with  much  white  and  green  painting.  The  walls 
on  the  right  and  at  the  ends  are  cased  to  a  considerable 
height  with  marble.  It  is  believed  by  many  that  the 
head  of  St.  John  the  Baptist  is  buried  in  the  eastern  wing, 
and  above  this  sacred  place  is  a  large  erection  of  wood 
with  a  dome  very  fine  in  color,  beetle-green  being 
mingled  with  gold.  Long  trays  for  slippers  lie  near  it. 
A  tall  grandfather's  clock,  tied  to  a  column  with  cords, 
ticks  not  far  off.  A  heathen  temple,  which  was  even- 
tually transformed  into  a  Christian  church,  called  the 
Church  of  St.  John,  once  stood  here,  and  in  the  walls 
there  are  still  to  be  found  remains  of  these  buildings, 
traces  of  Greek  and  Roman  architecture. 

On  one  occasion  when  I  was  in  this  mosque,  I  saw 

63 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

an  Arab  carelessly  perform  a  feat  which  seemed  as  nat- 
ural to  him  as  walking  on  a  level  road  is  to  me.  The 
marble  that  cases  three  of  the  interior  walls  rises  per- 
haps twenty  feet  from  the  ground,  and  ends  in  a  minute 
parapet,  upon  which  a  man  can  stand  only  with  diffi- 
culty sidewise.  There  is  no  rail  or  support  of  any  kind, 
and,  above,  the  smooth  walls  rise  to  the  roof.  The 
Arab  whom  I  saw  was  a  cleaner,  and  with  a  long  brush 
in  his  hand  he  was  coolly  promenading  about  upon  this 
parapet  doing  his  work.  I  saw  him  there  for  half  an 
hour,  and  left  him  still  in  his  apparently  perilous  posi- 
tion, his  naked  feet  clinging  sidewise  to  the  marble  while 
he  used  his  brush  vigorously  both  above  and  below  him. 

The  exterior  of  the  building  is  far  more  impressive 
than  the  interior,  which  is  not  interesting,  but  even  the 
effect  of  the  massive  severity  of  much  of  the  outer  wall 
is  marred  by  the  frightful  projecting  roof,  which,  in  its 
dress  of  pale-blue  and  green  paint,  looks  almost  incred- 
ibly tawdry  and  vulgar. 

Near  by  is  the  famous  tomb  of  Saladin,  in  finely  carved 
marble,  protected  by  a  cupola  and  partly  covered  by  a 
green  pall.  But  here  again  vile  taste  wars  against 
beauty.  Masses  of  exquisite  Oriental  tiles  line  the  walls 
of  the  tomb-house,  but  unfortunately  only  to  a  certain 
height,  and  above  them  the  eyes  are  outraged  by  hideous 
stripes  of  offensive  color.  But  in  the  little  garden  out- 
side, where  sits  beneath  a  wooden  porch  the  grave 
Moslem  who  guards  the  tomb,  dreaming  quietly  in  the 

64 


o 
a 

CO 

< 


CO 

< 
< 

< 


THE  SPELL  OF  DAMASCUS 

sunshine,  there  is  a  dehcately  exquisite  charm,  an  in- 
closed and  antique  peace  which  nothing  interferes  with. 
Under  the  porch  is  a  raised  platform  of  stone,  and  here- 
of course  upon  a  striped  sofa  — the  guardian  passes  his 
quiet  days,  looking  out  over  a  tiny  inclosure  surrounded 
by   the   walls   of  houses  with    closely  shuttered  win- 
dows.     Little  paths,  paved  roughly  with  cobblestones, 
wind  between  tall  green  shrubs  and  rose-bushes.   Plum- 
trees    cast  masses    of  shadow.     They  grow  about  a 
huge,  oval    basin   of   stone   filled  with   water,  in    the 
center    of  which  bubbles   a  fountain    from   a  shallow 
cup.     Climbing-roses  and  jasmine  embrace  the  houses. 
A  big,  white  arch  spans  the  garden.     At  the  far  end, 
beyond  the  water,  is  a  trellis. 

Why  is  it  so  fascinating?  Why  will  it  be  forever  a 
delicious  memory  in  my  mind?  I  can  scarcely  tell. 
Two  young  Arab  boys  lean  on  the  edge  of  the  basin 
dreamily  listening  to  the  fountain,  and  casting  sprays  of 
jasmine  upon  the  surface  of  the  water.  The  guardian 
draws  slowly  at  his  narghile,  as  he  squats  on  the  sofa 
with  his  legs  tucked  under  him.  A  blue  pigeon  flits 
under  the  white  arch.  The  noise  of  the  city,  in  the 
heart  of  which  we  are,  does  not  penetrate  to  this  place. 
We  hear  only  the  fountain.  Who  dwells  in  those  shut- 
tered houses,  behind  the  fretwork  of  wood,  behind  the 
climbing-flowers  ?  I  shall  never  know.  No  voice  drops 
down  from  them,  no  eyes  peep  out.  We  are  in  a  her- 
mitage, deep  surely  in  old  Damascus,  where  the  feet 
of  Abraham  trod. 
8  67 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

Another  garden  of  Damascus  which  I  can  never 
forget,  and  to  which  I  returned  day  after  day,  Hes  just 
outside  the  town  on  the  bank  of  the  Barada,  and  is  the 
haunt  of  pilgrims  returning  from  Mecca  to  their  homes 
in  distant  parts  of  the  world.  It  is  inclosed  by  the 
mosque  and  Tekkiyeh,  or  Pilgrims'  House,  of  Sultan 
Selim.  Outside  is  a  strong  wall  above  which  is  a  mul- 
titude of  the  close-set,  cuplike  cupolas  which  are  so 
characteristic  of  Damascus,  interspersed  with  little 
pointed  towers.  Some  of  the  cupolas  are  large,  some 
small.  Behind  them,  set  back  from  them,  rises  the 
mosque,  with  its  squat,  lead-covered  dome  and  its  two 
very  graceful,  yellow  stone  minarets.  The  mosque  is 
uninteresting,  but  the  garden  at  its  foot,  round  which  is 
built  the  Pilgrims'  House,  erected  in  the  year  15 16,  is  a 
bit  of  enchanted  ground.  Yet  how  can  its  enchantment 
be  defined?  The  mosque  is  falling  into  decay,  the  Pil- 
grims' House  is  neglected,  the  garden  is  a  wilderness. 
Old  age  broods  over  this  place  —  the  strange  old  age  of 
the  East  that  is  like  no  other  antiquity,  romantic,  fatal- 
istic, and  how  wonderfully  serene!  Arched  arcades, 
striped  in  crude  colors,  yellow,  blue,  and  white,  keep 
the  sun  from  the  rooms  of  the  pilgrims.  The  interiors 
look  rather  like  filthy  stables,  but  over  every  door  and 
every  window  there  is  a  section  of  exquisite  Oriental 
tiles,  precious  things  set  there  to  do  honor  to  those  who 
have  made  the  long  journey.  The  loveliness  of  these 
tiles  is  indescribable. 

68 


^  !.       ^  AND   ROOKS  OF  DAMASCUS 

■    — --  f  the  <  tmayyade  Mosque, since  rebuilt.    The  arched  iv.,^,.  t/vitmniiK 

urc/ss  the  pictur.  II  of  a  covered  street  supposed  to  be  referred  lo  in  Acts  ix.  ii:   "Go 

ntii  the  street  «  u.  and  inquire  in  the  house  of  fudas  for  one  called  Saul,  of  Tarsu«  " 


1-rom  a  photOfirapli.  copyright,  1909.  by  L'liderwood  &■  I'luierwood 


THE  SPELL  OF  DAMASCUS 

No  furniture  is  provided  for  the  pilgrims.      At  night 
they  He  in  a  muddle  of  garments  and  bundles  on  wooden 
platforms.      By  day  they  rest  in  the  garden,  under  the 
hedges  of  roses.     Never  did  I  fully  realize  what  must 
be  the  sweetness  of  rest  after  immense  exertions  and 
privations,  after  the  weariness  of  the   desert,  and   the 
dangers  by  the  way,  till  I  saw  the  Indian  pilgrims  re- 
posing in  this  garden  of  Selim,  watching  the  water  bub- 
bling in  the  great  stone  basin  before  the  mosque.     Near 
to  them  a  pear-tree  was  a  mass  of  snow-white  blossom. 
Poplars  with  silver  trunks  trembled  in  the  warm  and 
scented  breeze.     Between  the  gray  blocks  of  the  pave- 
ment the  herbage  pushed.     Everywhere  was  a  wild,  un- 
tutored tangle  of  rose-bushes.     Here  and  there  a  fire 
burned  in  a  brazier,  and  pilgrim  cooks  came  and  went, 
preparing  mysterious  meals.     Children  in  long  robes 
leaned  on    the    raised    stone    coping  of  the  fountain. 
Women   crouched  under  the   arcade   of  the  mosque. 
Some    Turkish    soldiers   from    the  barracks   close   by 
strolled  in  quietly,  smoking  cigarettes.   Beneath  a  willow 
a  man  was  praying.     And  the  pilgrims  from  Samarkand 
listened  to  the  sound  of  the  bees  and  the  murmur  of  the 
water;  and  some  blossoms  from  the  pear-tree,  white  as 
their  souls  were  white  after  their  prayers  at  the  holy 
places,  fell  softly  over  them ;  and  surely  they  thought 
of  the  deserts  they  had  traversed,  and  gave  glory  to 
Allah  and  to  his  Prophet  for  bringing  them  into  the 
earthly  paradise,  where  the  minarets   look   down  into 

71 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

the  silver-green  waters,  and  the  red  roses  blow  beside 
the  doors  of  their  sleeping-places. 

Their  grave  eyes  were  full  of  solemnly  happy  dreams. 

"PROTECTOR  GENERAL  OF  THE  HOLY  CARPET " 

In  Damascus  there  dwells  a  man  famous  among  the 
Moslems  of  Syria,  Abdul-Rahman  Pasha,  Conductor 
Protector  General  of  the  Holy  Carpet  and  of  the  Sacred 
Caravan  of  Syria  on  the  annual  journey  to  Mecca.  He 
is  also  called  the  pasha  of  the  hejaj.  He  was  kind 
enough  to  invite  me  to  pay  him  a  visit.  Egypt  and 
Syria  have  each  a  holy  carpet,  but  in  Egypt  the  pasha 
of  the  hejaj,  or  pilgrims  to  Mecca,  holds  his  office  for 
one  year  only,  whereas  in  Syria  the  post  is  hereditary, 
and  is  held  year  after  year  by  the  same  man.  This  per- 
sonage has  a  position  of  great  dignity  in  Damascus,  but 
he  has  to  pay  for  it  by  journeying  every  year  to  Mecca 
and  back.  Formerly  this  was  an  exhausting  under- 
taking, but  now  much  of  the  journey  can  be  made  by 
train.  When  he  leaves  the  train,  the  pasha  steps  into 
his  carriage.  But  he  enters  the  sacred  city  riding  upon 
a  milk-white  horse  and  bareheaded  and,  save  for  a 
\vhite  burnoose,  naked. 

When  I  arrived  at  the  entrance  to  his  dwelling,  which 
is  in  a  side  street  close  to  an  Arab  bath,  I  was  met  by 
a  handsome  young  Syrian,  Elias  Nimer,  who  told  me 
that  unexpectedly  the  pasha  had  been  called  away,  and 
that  he  had  been  deputed  to  conduct  me  through  three 

72 


THE  SPELL  OF  DAMASCUS 

or  four  of  the  principal  rooms,  and  also  the  pasha's 
stables.  He  added,  smiling,  that  his  name  meant  tiger, 
but  that  he  came  from  Nazareth  and  was  not  at  all  dan- 
gerous. As  my  admirable  and  very  competent  drago- 
man, Mr.  Shukly  Jamal  of  Jerusalem,  has  a  name  which 
signifies  camel,  I  walked  through  the  pasha's  palace  in 
pleasantly  varied  company.  We  visited  first  the  sum- 
mer saloon,  which  of  course  was  on  the  ground  floor, 
for  the  rich  Damascenes  occupy  the  upper  stories  of 
their  houses  in  winter,  but  in  the  hot  months  live  chiefly 
on  the  ground  floor,  and  spend  much  time  in  the  court- 
yards and  near  the  fountains. 

Passing  across  a  long  and  rather  narrow  interior 
court,  paved  with  pink  volcanic  stone,  we  came  into  a 
high  room.  The  floor  was  covered  with  black  and 
white  marble.  A  delicious  fountain  bubbled  up  in  a 
basin  of  yellow  and  white  marble,  above  which  was  a 
little  yellow  lion  with  gaping  jaws.  Near  it  was  a  framed 
plaque,  on  which,  in  white  lettering  against  black,  were 
the  Arabic  words,  "God  has  said,  'This  is  the  day  when 
truth  is  of  much  benefit  to  those  that  speak  it.'  "  Another 
saying,  in  letters  of  ivory,  proclaimed,  "God  is  merciful 
to  His  people."  Over  a  very  graceful  and  lovely 
marble  table  hung  a  handsome  gold  and  crystal  chan- 
delier, and  the  furniture  was  exquisite,  inlaid  with  wal- 
nut, ivory,  silver,  and  mother-of-pearl,  and  upholstered 
in  gray  and  pale-yellow  striped  silk.  The  effect  of  this 
combination  was  extraordinarily  cool  and  elegant.     A 

73 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

discordant  color  note  was  struck  by  the  ugly  painted 
ceiling,  crude  and  garish,  and  strangely  out  of  place, 
looking  down  on  the  delicate  marble. 

Up-stairs  was  a  large,  uninteresting  dining-room, 
with  an  immense  round  table  in  the  middle,  on  which 
were  arranged,  quite  in  European  fashion,  knives,  forks, 
and  napkins  for  sixteen  people.  Passing  through  a  hall, 
I  then  came,  between  tiger  and  camel,  into  the  pasha's 
official  reception-room.  This  was  a  finely  proportioned 
chamber,  containing  a  quantity  of  furniture  inlaid  with 
silver  and  mother-of-pearl,  and  cushioned  with  yellow, 
black,  and  red  silk.  At  the  windows  were  striped  silk 
curtains,  and  from  the  painted  ceiling  hung  a  really  mag- 
nificent hammered  brass  chandelier,  fitted  with  a  mul* 
titude  of  electric  lights,  which  Mr.  Nimer  politely  turned 
on  for  my  benefit.  The  floor  was  covered  with  a  su- 
perb carpet  from  Persia.  The  false  note  in  this  room 
was  supplied  by  a  large,  pink  stove.  Standing  on  tables 
were  two  pictures  painted  by  a  Syrian  artist.  One  was 
large  and  displayed  the  sacred  carpets  of  Egypt  and 
Syria,  in  their  respective  palanquins  of  green  and  red, 
set  upon  camels  and  surrounded  by  white-robed  pil- 
grims, approaching  the  round  "mountain  of  sacrifice"; 
the  other  was  a  view  of  Mecca,  with  many  mosques,  and 
showed  the  "Holy  Stone"  covered  with  a  black  pall. 

While  I  was  looking  at  these  pictures  one  of  the 
pasha's  eunuchs  came  from  the  harem  to  see  me.  He 
was  a  young  negro,  very   tall,   thin,    shambling,   and 

74 


J'rom  stereograph,  copyright,  liy  Underwood  A.-  Underwood 


s 


K\  ()|-   rHi' 


M<PKT    FROM    Ml-X'CA 


THE  SPELL  OF  DAMASCUS 

pathetic-looking,  dressed  in  a  pink  shirt,  black  trou- 
sers, and  a  pepper-and-salt  jacket  and  waistcoat.  Stand- 
ing sidewise  to  me,  with  his  hands  hanging,  in  a  high 
voice  he  entered  into  conversation.  He  informed  me 
that  he  had  been  taken  when  a  child  from  his  home  in 
the  Sudan  and  brought  to  Damascus,  where  now  for 
twelve  years  he  had  been  in  the  service  of  the  pasha. 
After  offering  me  a  cigarette,  he  proceeded  to  show  me 
his  watch,  a  silver  one,  and  his  chain,  which  was  of 
gold.  He  then  told  me,  with  an  air  of  pride,  that  he 
received  one  Turkish  pound  a  month  for  pocket-money, 
and  was  always  well  treated.  I  congratulated  him,  but 
he  suddenly  collapsed.  His  triumph  faded,  and,  droop- 
ing his  small  head,  he  exclaimed  in  an  almost  shrill 
pipe: 

"If  I  had  a  thousand  pounds,  I  would  give  it  all  to 
return  to  my  own  country.  I  would  give  also  my  watch. ' ' 
He  paused,  then  added,  "and  my  chain." 

"Can  you  remember  your  country?"  I  inquired. 

The  eunuch  stared  with  his  bulging  eyes,  and  fingered 
the  watch-chain  that  lay  proudly  across  the  pepper-and- 
salt  waistcoat. 

"No;  but  it  is  my  country,  and  I  wish  to  go  back 
there." 

And  he  bade  me  adieu  plaintively,  and  shambled 
away  to  the  pasha's  harem. 

After  visiting  the  pasha's  stables,  in  which  I  saw  mag- 
nificent horses,  with  skins  like  golden  satin,  munching 

77 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

barley  that  was  piled  up  in  round  heaps  almost  as  big 
as  the  mountain  of  sacrifice,  I  took  my  leave,  and  set 
out  for  a  long  and  desultory  stroll  through  the  city. 

THE    ESSENCE    OF    THE    CHARM 

Damascus  is  not  a  city  of  "  sights,"  like  Jerusalem.  It 
is  not  famous  for  its  antiquities,  and  there  are  not  many 
things  in  it  which  one  must  see  at  whatever  cost  of 
fatigue  or  boredom.  Nevertheless,  or  perhaps  for  this 
very  reason,  I  never  grew  tired  of  wandering  about  it, 
of  visiting  the  bazaars,  the  mosques,  the  baths,  the  gar- 
dens, the  khans,  the  cafes,  and  even  the  tombs  and  the 
graveyards. 

The  bazaars  are  fine,  and  the  shadowy  khans,  where 
the  wholesale  trade  is  carried  on,  are  fascinating.  In 
them  one  is  away  from  the  violent  bustle  of  eager  buy- 
ers and  sellers.  The  light  is  soft.  The  murmur  of  a 
fountain  is  often  audible.  The  dream  of  Damascus  de- 
scends on  the  spirit.  People  are  doing  business,  no 
doubt,  yet  the  khans  are  places  of  dreams,  are  full  of 
twilight  romance.  In  the  bath-houses  immense,  dark- 
red  and  brown  cockroaches  promenade  over  floors  of 
exquisite  marble,  and  an  occasional  rat  bounds  out  from 
some  favorite  nook  overshadowed  by  tight  bouquets  of 
flowers.  Any  protest  against  the  presence  of  live  stock 
is  received  by  the  bath  attendants  with  amused  surprise. 
One  must  therefore  either  resign  oneself — and  the 
cockroaches  are  deeply  curious  about  strangers  from  the 

78 


9 

OPEN   BAZAARS  OF  DAMASCUS 


I-'rom  d  [jhutograph,  copyright,  by  Ullderwoij. 


THE  SPELL  OF  DAMASCUS 

West  —  or  one  must  abruptly  withdraw,  and  pass  out 
into  the  sunHght,  perhaps  to  the  Meidan,  to  the  city 
walls,  or  to  some  garden  by  a  stream. 

Although  much  of  Damascus  looks  new  and  frail,  the 
walls  of  the  city  have  an  appearance  of  hoary  age.     Be- 
neath  them  are  spread  masses  of  dung,  which,  when 
thoroughly  dried  in  the  sun,  is  used  as  fuel.     Above 
them  sometimes  fantastic  and  filthy-looking  houses  ap- 
pear—  houses  that  seem  to  grow  out  of  them  like  some 
bulbous  form  of  disease.     Behind  heavily  grated  win- 
dows the  dark  eyes  of  women  peep  down  on  the  rare 
passers-by.      Here  and  there  decaying  towers  break  up 
these  walls,  here  and  there  trees  show  tufts  of  foliage. 
One  small  and  solitary  window,  above  which  is  a  rough 
arch  of  brick  and  stone,  is  said  to  be  the  aperture  from 
which  St.  Paul,  at  the  time  of  his  conversion  near  Da- 
mascus, descended  in  a  basket.     Near  the  Thomas  Gate 
is  the  site  of  the  house  of  Naaman,  appropriately  close 
to  the  present  place  of  the  lepers,  whom  I  saw  gathered 
about  their  well,  and  who  extended  their  twisted  and 
rotting  hands  to  me  for  alms.     The  tomb  of  St.  George, 
who  is  said  to  have  helped  St.  Paul  in  his  memorable 
escape,  is  not  far  off,  and  there  may  be  seen,  leaning 
against  an  upright  stone,  and  surmounted  by  a  pale- 
blue  wooden  pagoda,  from  which  hangs  a  lamp,  a  rep- 
resentation of  the   saint,  on  a  white  horse,  slaying  a 
green  dragon  with  scarlet  jaws.     This  fiery  picture  is 
discreetly  framed  in  white  muslin. 

8i 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

The  so-called  house  of  Ananias,  which  is  one  of  the 
few  "sights,"  is  now  a  subterranean  chapel,  small  and 
remarkably  ugly.  It  has  two  altars,  and  belongs  to 
the  Latins,  who  celebrate  mass  in  it  every  Thursday. 
The  floor  is  of  stone,  the  diseased-looking  roof  is  stained 
with  patches  of  blue  and  white.  A  few  wooden  benches 
stand  before  the  altars.  A  chapel  on  this  site  is  said 
to  have  been  the  first  chapel  used  for  Christian  worship. 
One  day,  as  I  was  leaving  it  and  mounting  to  earth, 
some  very  well-dressed  female  worshipers  —  no  doubt 
Syrian  Christians  —  emerged  from  their  devotions,  rose 
abruptly  from  their  knees,  fluttered  after  me,  and  held 
out  beringed  fingers,  desiring  to  "see  my  money."  But 
very  few  requests  of  this  kind  fell  upon  my  ears  in 
Damascus,  where  I  was  usually  ignored  or  treated  with 
grave  politeness.  And  so  there  was  nothing  to  disturb 
for  me  the  strange  charm  of  the  City  of  Minarets,  the 
City  of  Rushing  Waters.  I  grew  to  love  the  place.  It 
cast  upon  me  a  spell.     I  long  to  return  there. 

One  night  I  visited  the  wooden  theater.  I  sat  in  a 
box.  Upon  the  stage  was  given  in  Arabic  a  represen- 
tation of  "The  Prisoners  of  the  Bastille,"  preceded  by  a 
hymn  in  praise  of — Abdul-Hamid!  But  I  looked  gen- 
erally at  the  audience.  Among  the  young  dandies,  the 
merchants,  the  Jews,  there  sat  a  Bedouin  boy,  a  little 
apart.  I  am  certain  this  was  his  first  visit  to  civili- 
zation. He  was  clad  in  party-colored  rags,  full  of 
lovely  shades  of  blue  and  purple.     On  his  head  was  the 

82 


i\i n.ANj-.  L-AuAiCt-.,  il>(^M)A8Cl  s 


THE  SPELL  OF  DAMASCUS 

keffieh.  He  gazed  with  his  desert  eyes  at  the  Jewish 
actresses,  at  the  boxes,  af  the  people  about  him.  Be- 
tween the  acts  a  boy  carried  about  a  tray  covered  with 
small  dishes  of  nuts,  melon-seeds,  oranges.  "Oh!  my 
uncles,"  he  cried,  "occupy  your  time!  Occupy  your 
time,  my  uncles !     Occupy  your  time ! " 

The  Bedouin  uncle  responded  to  the  call.  He  ate 
from  every  dish,  paying  with  coins  which  he  disinterred 
from  his  enchanting  rags.  The  play  proceeded.  He 
stared,  violently  cracked  his  nuts,  spat  out  the  shells 
among  his  neighbors,  devoured  his  melon-seeds.  Never 
did  his  expression  change.  Yet  no  one  in  that  place 
was  so  marvelously  expressive  as  he  was.  The  desert 
was  in  his  attitude.  The  desert  gazed  out  of  his  eyes, 
which  till  now  had  always  looked  on  the  limitless  spaces, 
on  the  trembling  mirage,  and  on  the  shining  gold  of  the 
sands. 

As  I  watched  him,  I  knew  the  essence  of  the  won- 
derful charm  of  Damascus.  It  is  a  garden  city  touched 
by  the  great  desert.  Under  its  roses  one  feels  the  sands. 
Beside  its  trembling  waters  one  dreams  of  the  trembling 
mirage.  The  cry  of  its  muezzins  seems  to  echo  from 
its  mosque  towers  to  that  most  wonderful  thing  in 
nature  which  is  "God  without  man."  The  breath  of 
the  wastes  passes  among  the  poplars  as  that  Bedouin 
boy  passed  among  the  merchants  when  he  came  and 
when  he  went.  In  Damascus  one  hears  the  two  voices. 
And  when  one  looks  from  the  sacred  mountain  upon 

85 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

that  city  of  dream,  cradled  among  the  woods,  one  sees 
far  off  the  tawny  beginnings  of  that  other  magic,  which 
looks  out  from  the  Bedouin's  eyes.  And  though,  per- 
haps, with  the  pilgrims  from  Samarkand,  one  loves  to 
rest  beside  the  fountains  under  the  hedges  of  roses,  one 
is  aware  of  the  other  love,  intercourse  with  which  has 
made  Damascus  an  earthly  paradise  for  them  and  for 
you. 

And  one  knows  why  Damascus  has  a  spell.  It  is 
the  city  of  shade,  of  waters,  of  marble  minarets,  and  of 
roses.     But  it  is  also  the  great  city  of  the  desert. 

From  the  sacred  mountain  it  looks  like  an  exquisite 
mirage,  and  it  is  near  to  the  mirage. 

Its  spell  is  the  spell  of  the  desert  and  the  spell  of  the 
oasis. 


86 


FROM  DAMASCUS  TO  NAZARETH 


Ill 

FROM  DAMASCUS  TO  NAZARETH 

TO  see  the  Holy  Land  as  it  ought  to  be  seen, 
one  must  ride  through  it,  and  the  journey- 
should  be  taken,  if  possible,  in  spring.  Many 
travelers  enter  at  Jaffa,  go  by  train  to  Jerusalem,  then 
camp  from  Jerusalem  to  Damascus,  and  leave  Syria  by 
way  of  Beirut.  I  preferred  to  enter  at  Beirut,  and  to 
camp  from  Damascus  to  Jerusalem,  making  Jerusalem 
the  finale  of  my  journey.  There  is  something  to  be 
said  for  both  arrangements.  Damascus  is  far  more 
beautiful  than  Jerusalem ;  so  if  you  wish  to  end  in  beauty, 
you  must  not  follow  my  example.  But  Jerusalem  is  to 
most  people  far  more  interesting  than  Damascus,  and 
at  Easter-time,  when  I  was  there,  is  perhaps  the  most 
interesting  city  in  the  world.  My  journey,  therefore, 
was  undoubtedly  a  crescendo,  and  it  closed  with  a  mag- 
nificent climax.  For  the  benefit  of  others  who  may  in 
the  future  wish  to  go  over  this  ground,  I  will  state  some 
particulars  of  the  camping  facilities  in  Palestine,  and  will 
give  a  list  of  my  halting-places,  with  the  approximate 
times  of  my  arrivals  and  departures,  from  day  to  day. 

89 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

All  the  arrangements  for  my  tour,  which  were  ex- 
tremely satisfactory,  were  made  with  local  agents  of 
Jerusalem.  I  paid  for  everything  at  the  rate  of  fifteen 
dollars  a  day.  The  camp  was  sent  from  Jerusalem,  and 
met  me  at  the  first  halting-place,  Kafr  Hawar.  I  had 
an  excellent  tent,  a  first-rate  cook,  and  a  good  horse  to 
ride.  My  dragoman,  the  Kurd  who  had  charge  of  the 
animals  and  who  acted  as  guide,  and  the  cook,  also  rode 
horses.  The  two  attendants  were  mounted  on  mules, 
and  mules  carried  the  baggage.  Horses  were  sent  from 
Kafr  Hawar  to  the  outskirts  of  Damascus  for  the  first 
day's  ride. 

I  left  Damascus  early  on  March  28,  and  was  at  Kafr 
Hawar  between  three  and  four  in  the  afternoon.  On 
the  second  night  I  slept  at  Banias,  close  to  the  sources 
of  the  Jordan ;  on  the  third  at  the  Jewish  village  of  Ja- 
uneh ;  on  the  fourth  near  Tiberias,  on  the  shore  of  the 
Sea  of  Galilee ;  on  the  fifth  and  sixth  at  Nazareth ;  on 
the  seventh  at  Jenin;  on  the  eighth  at  Nablus;  on  the 
ninth  at  Sinjil.  The  tenth  night  was  my  first  night  in 
Jerusalem.  On  the  second  day  of  my  journey  I  rode 
from  seven  in  the  morning  till  six  at  night,  but  rested 
in  the  middle  of  the  day  for  nearly  an  hour  and  a  half 
at  the  house  of  a  Druse.  On  the  third  day  I  was  in  the 
saddle  from  seven-thirty  till  six,  on  the  fourth  from 
seven  till  ten  in  the  morning,  on  the  fifth  from  six-thirty 
till  between  three  and  four,  on  the  seventh  from  seven 
till  half-past  two,  on  the  eighth  from  seven  till  four-fif- 

90 


ai. 


h 
Z 

0- 


FROM  DAMASCUS  TO  NAZARETH 

teen,  on  the  ninth  from  seven  till  three,  and  on  the  tenth, 
the  last,  from  about  six-thirty  till  early  in  the  afternoon. 
A  halt  was  made  each  day  for  lunch,  but  we  seldom 
allowed  ourselves  as  much  as  an  hour  for  that  meal. 
On  the  sixth  day  I  rode  from  Nazareth  to  the  top  of 
Mount  Tabor.  If  I  ever  make  this  journey  again,  I 
shall  arrange  to  spend  at  least  three  nights  on  the  shore 
of  the  Sea  of  Galilee,  which  is,  in  my  opinion,  far  more 
beautiful,  touching,  and  in  every  way  attractive  than 
Nazareth.  One  has  to  part  with  some  illusions  in  Pal- 
estine ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  one  can  there  gather  in 
some  impressions  which  will  not  easily  fade  from  the 
mind.  The  castle  above  Caesarea  Philippi,  the  plain 
between  Caesarea  Philippi  and  Ja-uneh,  Tiberias,  Jeri- 
cho, the  wilderness  of  Judea,  the  Dead  Sea,  the  view  of 
the  mountains  of  Moab  from  its  shore  —  who  that  has 
once  seen  these  in  the  spring  can  forget  them,  can  ever 
regret  any  journey,  however  fatiguing,  which  closed  in 
the  land  which  held  them  in  its  bosom? 

The  first  day's  ride  was  a  delightful  experience.  The 
weather  was  radiant.  Damascus  faded  away  from  me 
into  the  blue,  like  an  Oriental  vision  too  lovely  to  last, 
as  we  rode  toward  the  snowy  range  of  the  Anti-Libanus, 
dominated  by  the  giant  Mount  Hermon.  Our  route  lay 
over  gently  undulating,  happy,  and  strangely  serene- 
looking  country.  We  passed  slowly  stepping  camels 
laden  with  willow  wood,  threaded  a  grove  of  glorious 
old  olives,  and  at  length  came  out  from  the  cloud  of 

93 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

green  that  seems  to  float  about  the  city  of  Abraham. 
The  way  was  treeless  now,  and  still  gently  undulating. 
Prairies  of  young,  growing  corn  stretched  away  to  right 
and  left.  Here  and  there  were  the  one-story  houses  of 
natives.  In  my  ears,  instead  of  the  ceaseless  murmur 
of  waters,  was  the  exultant  song  of  the  larks.  To  my 
nostrils  there  rose  up  the  smell  of  the  beans.  It  was  as 
if  the  spring  lifted  hypnotic  hands  and  suggested  for- 
getfulness  to  my  subjective  mind.  Yet  I  often  turned 
to  look  back,  and  only  when  at  last,  far,  far  away  at  the 
edge  of  the  desert,  my  reluctant  eyes  could  see  nothing 
but  a  mystery  of  indigo,  did  I  think  of  the  Breton  boy, 
and  his  desire  and  my  own,  and  set  my  face  resolutely 
toward  the  mountains  and  the  long  way  to  the  Holy 
Places. 

On  that  first  day  spring  would  not  be  denied.  It  was 
full  of  promises,  telling  me  it  would  be  with  me,  shower- 
ing soft  airs,  sun-rays,  music  of  birds,  odors,  ethereal 
colors,  till  I  should  see  the  stony  hills  of  Jerusalem; 
and  I  believed  it — till  the  morrow.  For  at  Kafr  Hawar 
the  camp  was  set  near  a  rushing  stream,  on  a  lawn,  in 
front  of  a  grove  of  yellow-green  poplars,  in  a  cup  of 
calm  hills.  And  the  song  of  the  birds  ceased  only  when 
night  fell  and  the  sun  went  down  in  a  sky  like  a  huge 
turquoise.  And  Syrian  children,  robed  in  dull-blue  and 
exquisite,  dim  rose  color, —  rags  of  genius, — danced 
about  the  camp-fire  like  little  harbingers  of  good  fortune. 
That  next  day!     We  plunged  into  winter. 

94 


TIBERI  -\^    \\T>   'I'll!. 


np  r,  4T  n  Fi< 


FROM  DAMASCUS  TO  NAZARETH 

probable  northern  limit  of 
Christ's  journeyings 

Our  destination,  Banias, — in  old  days  Caesarea  Philippi, 
in  older  days  still  Paneas,  a  famous  sanctuary  of  Pan, 
and  the  site  of  a  temple  built  by  Herod  the  Great  to 
Augustus, —  lies  at  the  base  of  the  southern  slopes  of 
Mount  Hermon,  which  rises  to  a  height  of  nearly  eight 
thousand  feet  above  it.     There  are  the  sources  of  the 
Jordan,  and  there  the  traveler  from  Damascus  reaches 
the  probable  limit  of  Christ's  journeyings  northward. 
To  gain  this  retreat  we  had  to  ride  high  into  the  moun- 
tains, near  to  the  snow-fields  of  Hermon,  which  looked 
ghostly  on  our  right,  and  over  masses  of  volcanic  rock, 
sometimes  interspersed  with  bushes  of  hardy  myrtle. 
Heavy  rain  came  on  almost  as  soon  as  we  started,  and 
presently  an  icy  gale  was  blowing  full  in  our  faces.    We 
had  gone  from  a  spring  more  radiant  than  many  a  Wes- 
tern  summer   into   winter.     Absolute  desolation   sur- 
rounded us;  the  breath  of  the  snows  chilled  us  almost 
to  the  bone ;  the  stumbling  horses  made  their  way  with 
difficulty  over  the  loose  stones  and  the  perforated  rocks. 
I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  placed  on  a  magic  carpet  by  a 
malign  jinn,  and  transported  suddenly  to  some  terrible 
Northern  land.    Toward  noon  we  reached  a  high  plateau, 
the  haunt  of  bears,  and  came  upon  the  first  Druse  village 
I  had  seen,  huddled  in  terraces  among  the  inhospitable 
rocks. 

97 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

The  members  of  this  still  mysterious  religion  love 
rather  than  fear  desolate  places,  and  hold  themselves 
strictly  apart;  but  they  are  not  inhospitable  to  travelers, 
and  I  was  admitted  into  a  house  to  rest  for  a  little  while, 
and  to  gain  shelter  against  the  raging  storm.  My  host 
was  a  tall,  very  handsome  man,  well  dressed  in  a  beau- 
tiful combination  of  blues  and  reds,  with  a  snow-white 
turban  bound  about  a  tarboosh  from  which  the  tassel 
was  missing.  The  tarboosh  without  the  tassel  marks 
the  Druse.  The  house  was  built  of  yellow  stone,  and 
the  floor  of  the  good-sized,  spotlessly  clean  room  was 
of  pale-yellow  earth,  which  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
freshly  dug  up,  raked,  and  gently  smoothed.  There 
was  no  furniture.  The  roof  was  of  wood.  In  a  recess 
lay  a  large  pile  of  carefully  folded  rugs.  One  was 
spread  for  us,  and  we  ate,  sitting  on  the  ground.  The 
atmosphere  was  deliciously  warm  and  cozy.  My  host, 
who  stayed  gravely  beside  me,  standing  while  I  reposed, 
was  apparently  one  of  the  Ulema,  or  "  initiated"  Druses, 
for  he  informed  me  that  he  never  smoked  and  never 
drank  coffee.     The  Juhaleh,  or  "uninitiated,"  do  both. 

After  paying  for  our  entertainment,  we  remounted, 
and  pursued  our  way  in  wind  and  rain  over  the  haunt 
of  bears.  And  now  one  of  the  surprises  of  this  region 
came  upon  us.  Leaving  Hermon  on  our  right,  we  de- 
scended toward  the  Jordan,  and  suddenly  entered  into 
summer.  The  wind  fell,  the  rain  ceased,  the  sky  smiled 
on  us,  the  sun  shone  out.     Flowers  were  about  our 

98 


FROM  DAMASCUS  TO  NAZARETH 

horses'  feet.  Far  down  below  us  stretched  the  deli- 
ciously  fertile  plain  of  the  Huleh,  a  land  of  milk  and 
honey,  where  the  black  buffaloes  wallow  in  oceans  of 
gold-colored  blossoms.  And  on  a  hill  towering  over 
it,  above  the  ancient  sanctuary  of  the  great  god  Pan, 
were  the  ruins  of  the  castle  of  Kalat  es-Subeibeh,  once 
perhaps  the  most  glorious  stronghold  in  Syria.  My 
heart  leaped  at  the  wide  splendor  of  this  view  as  we  rode 
down  the  rocky  paths,  passing  more  villages  of  Druses, 
from  which  men  in  blues  and  reds,  with  painted  eyes, 
came  out  to  stare  at  us,  and  women,  many  of  them  beau- 
tiful, tall,  slender,  with  aristocratic  features  full  of  race, 
gazed  at  us  over  the  low  stone  walls. 

Although  the  horses  were  tired,  and  we  had  had  a 
hard  day,  I  resolved  to  make  the  wide  detour  which  was 
necessary  if  we  were  to  see  the  castle.  This  involved 
another  climb  overground  so  steep  that  we  were  obliged 
to  dismount  and  lead  our  horses.  But  we  were  rewarded 
for  our  exertions  by  one  of  the  most  magnificent  views 
I  have  ever  seen,  bounded,  far  away,  by  the  pale-blue 
mountains  of  Palestine.  Leaning  on  a  wall  that  over- 
looked a  sheer  precipice  of  a  thousand  feet,  I  gazed  at 
the  mountains  of  Bashan,  the  mountains  of  Galilee,  the 
mighty  slopes  and  crests  of  Hermon,  at  the  rocky  de- 
files, the  Druse  villages,  the  groves  of  olives,  the  vast 
plain  stretching  to  that  lake  which  many  authorities 
have  identified  with  the  waters  of  Merom,  where  Joshua 
fought  with  Jabin,   King  of   Hazor.     Others,   among 

99 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

them  Grove,  are  of  a  different  opinion.  That  day  I 
was  untroubled  by  tradition,  by  conflicts  of  learning. 
It  was  enough  for  me  that  from  this  aery  of  the  Franks, 
dating  from  the  twelfth  century,  I  gazed  on  the  Promised 
Land. 

That  night  I  slept  in  a  pastoral  paradise,  and  for  me 
the  old  gods  lived  again.  Was  it  wrong?  I  could  not 
blame  myself.  The  spirit  of  Pan  still  lingers  among  the 
tangled  undergrowth,  the  oaks,  the  olives,  the  rank 
herbage,  and  the  wild  flowers  that  gather  about  the 
sparkling  waters  of  Jordan,  cool,  clear,  and  touched  with 
a  gleam  of  silver  as  they  leap  from  the  orange  cliff  where 
the  great  god  was  worshiped,  and  propitiated  with  sacri- 
fices, in  the  days  that  are  a  legend,  but  that  still  stir  the 
imaginations  of  men.  And  late  in  the  night  I  sat  alone, 
and  looked  at  the  evening  star  shining  above  the  preci- 
pice, and  listened  to  the  delicate  cry  of  the  sacred  river 
starting  on  its  way  to  the  place  where  the  Russian  pil- 
grims enter  it  to  be  cleansed  of  their  many  sins.  And 
though  I  remembered  that  perhaps  there,  by  the  rock 
from  which  the  sweet  waters  rise  to  give  life  to  the  land, 
were  said  the  words,  "Thou  art  Peter,  and  upon  this 
rock  I  will  build  my  church,"  I  still  heard  in  the  night, 
as  if  from  far  off,  that  rustic  music  which  is  as  the  soul 
of  grasses  and  trees,  of  rocks  and  hills  and  rivers.  Some- 
where, in  some  hidden  place  among  the  gnarled  trunks 
of  the  olives,  surely  the  son  of  Mercury  and  the  dryad 
was  piping  unabashed.      Toward  dawn  heavy  rain  pat- 

lOO 


V 


I  HK   HOUSETOPS  OF  NAZARETH 


FROM  DAMASCUS  TO  NAZARETH 

tered  on  the  roof  of  my  tent,  and  odors  rose  from  the 
soaked  herbage.  And  still  above  the  rain  I  heard  the 
voice  of  the  syrinx,  and  in  the  darkness  I  smelled 
the  perfumes  of  Pan. 

THE  JOYS  OF  SPRING  IN  PALESTINE 

In  the  morning  the  thick  grass  about  the  tent  door  was 
drenched,  and  from  the  earth  there  mounted  a  Hght  mist 
to  the  crested  oHves.  We  started  early,  crossed  the 
stream,  and  came  into  the  land  of  milk  and  honey.  That 
day  all  that  I  had  ever  heard  of  the  joys  of  the  spring 
in  Palestine  came  back  to  my  memory,  and  I  rejoiced  in 
truth.  Till  near  the  end  of  our  journey  we  rode  through 
the  immense  and  languid  plain,  bathed  in  the  rays  of  the 
sun,  treading  among  flowers,  and  resting  our  eyes  on 
great  stretches  of  green  and  yellow.  The  wild  mustard 
lit  up  our  way  with  its  tiny  blossoms,  the  red  anemone 
and  the  red  poppy  lifted  their  cups  toward  the  oleanders, 
the  olives,  the  wild  oaks,  as  if  calling  a  toast  to  the 
spring.  Far  off,  looking,  in  their  ocean  of  gold-colored 
flowers,  like  great  patches  of  black  velvet,  the  herds  of 
buffaloes  voluptuously  dreamed,  and  the  wild  duck,  fly- 
ing low,  trailed  over  the  hidden  swamps  where  they 
breed  by  thousands.  There  was  in  the  scene  a  rank 
richness  that  seemed  to  lie  upon  the  senses  like  a  weight 
as  mile  after  mile  was  covered.  A  dream  came  down 
on  the  horsemen.  Pan  piped  no  more.  Surely  he  was 
sleeping  under  an  oak  by  some  hidden  and  sluggishly 

103 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

flowing  stream,  and  red  and  yellow  flowers  were  crowd- 
ing about  his  hairy  form,  and  were  hiding  the  syrinx, 
which  had  dropped  from  his  tired  hand. 

At  noon  I  rested  under  a  walnut,  and  there  came  to 
gaze  upon  me  a  Bedouin  youth  called  Musa  Mustafa. 
He  watched  me,  leaned  on  his  old  matchlock,  and  pres- 
ently began  to  smile  and  grow  friendly.  When  I  drank 
he  said:  "That  is  lion's  milk.  I  drink  water."  He 
was  told  that  I  was  English,  and  he  asked  many  ques- 
tions about  England,  about  the  houses,  the  servants. 
When  I  told  him  that  in  England  blond  female  servants 
waited  upon  me,  he  said,  "I  wish  to  live  in  England." 
I  looked  at  his  gun,  said  I  had  only  fifteen  minutes  more 
to  give  to  repose,  and  that  I  should  like  to  carry  away 
a  wild  duck.  Without  a  word  he  vanished  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  golden  swamps.  Watch  in  hand,  I  waited. 
Ten  minutes  passed,  then  I  heard  a  dull  report;  five 
minutes  later  the  boy  reappeared,  holding  a  fat  duck 
toward  me.  And  so,  with  the  gain  of  a  duck  and  the 
loss  of  some  coins,  I  took  leave  of  Musa  Mustafa,  and 
left  him  leaning  on  his  gun  and  gazing  after  me  as  I  rode 
away  into  the  great  world  that  he  will  never  see. 

A  COLONY  OF  GERMAN  AND  POLISH  JEWS 

Toward  evening  we  came  to  a  definite  road  running 
straight  between  tall  ranges  of  eucalyptus-trees.  Be- 
hind them  were  plantations  of  almond-  and  fruit-trees 
symmetrically  arranged,  and  carefully  tended  vineyards. 

104 


THK  RIVF.R   lORDAN,  NEAR  ITS  SOURCE 


From  a  photograph,  copyright,  1910,  by  L'nderwood  &  Underwoou 


FROM  DAMASCUS  TO  NAZARETH 

In  the  gold  of  the  evening,  flocks  of  shaggy  sheep,  herds 
of  small  bullocks  and  goats,  were  being  driven  home 
by  fair  men,  with  pale  faces,  weak  eyes,  and  noses  of 
mark,  whose  long-haired  heads  were  crowned  by  hid- 
eous hats  of  soft  and  dusty  felt.  We  turned  to  the  right, 
climbed  a  steep  road  covered  with  enormous,  firmly 
fixed  stones,  passed  through  an  avenue  of  cypresses, 
and  came  into  one  of  those  strange  little  worlds  which 
are  scattered  about  Palestine  —  a  "colony."  This  col- 
ony was  of  foreign  Jews,  Polish  and  German.  The  well- 
built  stone  houses,  many  of  them  with  little  gardens, 
were  alined  on  each  side  of  a  street  rising  in  steps  up 
the  mountain,  and  as  I  stood  upon  the  small,  grassy 
terrace  —  almost  like  a  natural  balcony  jutting  out  over 
an  immense  view  which  embraced  Lake  Huleh,  with  its 
papyrus-covered  northern  shore  —  on  which  the  camp 
was  pitched,  I  heard  behind  me  a  chorus  of  Jewish 
voices  lifted  in  what  seemed  an  antique  evening  hymn. 
The  hymn  persisted.  Up  from  the  plain  pattered  the 
flocks  and  herds.  Mares,  attended  by  prancing  foals, 
went  by.  I  heard  the  baaing  of  sheep,  the  lowing  of 
cattle.  Dogs  barked.  Yes,  this  was  a  "home"  —  a 
home  bathed  in  the  pure  air  from  the  mountains.  Lights 
shone  from  the  windows.  Jewish  mothers  were  putting 
their  children  to  bed  —  little  Palestine  Jews  and  Jewesses 
who  knew  not  the  lands  of  their  parents.  In  the  dark- 
ness the  hymn  sounded  older,  full  of  the  pathos  —  yet 
full,  too,  of  the  strange  determination  —  of  the  wander- 
»  107 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

ing  nation  that  denies  and  is  so  often  denied.  And  I 
thought  of  the  "songs  of  Zion,"  and  I  thought  of  the 
strange  land.  Here  at  least  they  could  sing,  strangers 
though  they  were.  That  night  I  heard  no  note  of  the 
syrinx.     The  great  god  was  left  behind. 

BY  THE  SEA  OF  GALILEE 

Next  day  we  rode  down  to  the  Sea  of  Galilee.  Noth- 
ing else  in  Palestine  touched  me  so  much,  nothing  else 
seemed  to  me  so  intimately  to  retain  the  fragrance  of 
the  most  beautiful  spirit  our  world  has  known,  as  Gal- 
ilee and  its  shores.  As  I  rode  slowly  down  to  it  over 
the  hills  covered  with  wild  flowers  and  plants  and 
grasses  that  lifted  themselves  almost  to  the  knees  of  the 
horses,  I  felt  at  last,  "This  is  indeed  the  Holy  Land" 
—  the  land  dreamed  of  by  the  Russian  pilgrim  in  the 
icy  North,  and  by  the  little  Breton  boy  on  the  sun- 
scorched  African  upland;  the  land  toward  which  hearts 
turn  from  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth,  the  unique 
land  of  promise  and  of  fulfilment.  The  gesture  of  the 
Breton  boy  came  back  to  my  mind  as  he  said,  "I  shall 
see  the  Holy  Land."  Surely  in  a  mystic  dream  he  had 
looked  on  Galilee.  On  those  quiet  waters  far  below  me, 
as  still  as  glass,  green,  hedged  about  by  thickets  of  wild 
oleander  and  by  myriads  of  unknown  flowers,  the  mi- 
raculous feet  had  walked.  It  was  as  if  the  touch  of  those 
feet  had  given  to  them  peace  forever — that  marvelous 
peace  at  which  I  now  was  gazing. 

io8 


TIBERIAS,    CJ.\     MIL   hh.A   Ut    L.AL1LEK 


FROM  DAMASCUS  TO  NAZARETH 

Yes,  this  was  the  country  of  Jesus;  and  for  me  at 
that  moment  all  the  old  gods  were  dead. 

The  calm  of  Galilee  on  a  perfect  morning  of  spring 
is  like  no  other  calm  I  have  ever  known.  It  is  gentler, 
sweeter  than  the  wonderful  calm  of  the  desert.  There 
you  seem  to  be  coming  into  the  very  presence  of  God 
the  Father.  As  you  draw  .near  to  Galilee,  it  is  as  if, 
with  the  handful  of  humble  fishermen,  you  drew  near  to 
God  the  Son.  Galilee  takes  your  hand  as  a  friend,  and 
draws  you  to  it.  It  seems  to  breathe  upon  you  and  give 
you  peace. 

In  a  famous  book,  before  going  to  Galilee,  I  read: 
"The  scenery  around  is  destitute  of  grandeur,  beauty, 
and  variety.  The  shores  are  singularly  uniform  ...  all 
around  the  sea  silence  and  desolation  reign." 

How  untrue!  Everywhere  there  is  beauty:  in  the 
oval  sea,  with  its  deep-green,  dreaming  waters ;  in  the 
dreaming,  flowery  shores,  where  the  pink  blossoms  of 
the  oleanders  lean  toward  Jordan's  entering  wave;  in 
the  long,  green  lawns  with  wine-colored  patches  that 
slope  gently  away  behind  the  three  snowy  cupolas  and 
the  cypress-trees  that  mark  the  probable  site  of  Caper- 
naum; in  the  steep  slopes  of  Gadara,  gashed  with  livid 
yellow  and  white ;  in  the  low  line  of  shore,  like  a  line  of 
paint  in  a  tender  picture,  where  once  dwelt  a  woman  who 
was  forgiven,  Mary  Magdalene;  in  the  flat-topped 
Mountain  of  the  Beatitudes,  set  back  between  two  nearer 
hills,  where  green    shades  into  brown.     Galilee  is  all 

III 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

beauty — touching,  exquisite  beauty.  It  looks  hallowed. 
And  is  it  not  forever  hallowed?  All  I  had  dreamed  of 
it  was  to  me,  and  how  much  more ! 

"  Around  the  sea  silence  and  desolation  reign."  No ; 
silence  and  peace,  the  sweetest,  most  delicate  peace,  not 
desolation,  reign. 

Pulling  up  our  horses  knee-deep  in  flowers,  we  looked 
long  at  this  haven  where  we  would  be.  And  when  at 
last  we  rode  on,  we  seemed  sinking  into  the  very  bosom 
of  a  peace  passing  understanding.  Often  my  eyes  turned 
to  where  Mary  Magdalene  had  lived.  And  all  these 
coasts  and  all  these  motionless  waters  seemed  waters 
and  coasts  of  forgiveness.  And  from  every  hill  surely 
there  floated  the  words,  "Blessed  are  the  peacemakers: 
for  they  shall  be  called  the  children  of  God." 

As  we  descended,  the  vegetation  grew  more  luxuriant. 
We  moved  through  a  sort  of  jungle  of  flowers  and  sub- 
tropical vegetation,  toward  the  motionless  green  waters, 
above  which  there  was  a  sparkle,  as  if  millions  of  minute 
golden  fragments  were  quivering  ceaselessly.  Heat  took 
us  —  a  still,  soft  heat  that  was  as  soothing  as  a  quiet 
embrace.  And  the  wonderful,  the  happy  peace  deepened 
about  us,  effortless,  irresistible.  Now,  away  to  the  right, 
close  to  the  water,  I  saw  a  habitation,  a  small  gray 
monastery,  with  a  tiny  garden  planted  with  cypresses. 
I  heard  the  voice  of  a  stream,  hidden  in  flowers.  Masses 
of  rushes  lifted  their  slender  heads  above  the  wild  mus- 
tard blossoms;   beyond  them  lay  a  fisherman's  white 

112 


FROM  DAMASCUS  TO  NAZARETH 

boat;  a  tiny  wreath  of  smoke  curled  up.  And  now,  al- 
most smothered  in  flowers  and  rushes,  we  came  upon  a 
hut  of  papyrus  under  which  squatted  two  swarthy,  brown- 
skinned  men,  clad  in  red  and  blue,  with  caps  of  camels'- 
hair,  holding  red  rosaries, — "the  idleness  tool,"  as  the 
Syrians  call  it, — and  smoking  cigarettes  as  they  gazed 
with  heavy  eyes  at  the  motionless  flowers,  the  motion- 
less rushes,  the  motionless  waters,  themselves,  like 
statues,  motionless.     So  we  came  upon  men  of  Galilee. 

WHERE  CHRIST  TAUGHT  AT  CAPERNAUM 

It  was  ten  o'clock.  We  dismounted ;  the  Kurd  took 
charge  of  the  horses,  and  started  on  the  ride  to  Tiberias, 
while  we  embarked  to  visit  Capernaum. 

Through  the  lustrous  heat,  over  green  water  that 
looked  almost  like  satin,  we  glided  toward  the  little  white 
cupolas  and  the  cypresses  that  mark  what  was  once  the 
"city  of  consolation,"  or  Christ's  "  own  city  "  ;  where  he 
taught,  where  Simon  Peter  and  Andrew  dwelt,  where 
were  wrought  the  miracles  on  the  centurion's  servant 
and  on  the  man  with  an  unclean  spirit,  and  where  "in 
the  house  "  Christ  set  a  child  in  the  midst  of  the  disciples 
and  said,  "Whosoever  shall  receive  one  of  such  children 
in  my  name,  receiveth  me." 

Tel  Hum  is  now  the  name  given  to  this  place.  The 
full  heat  of  noon  was  descending  upon  it  as  we  drew 
near;  the  three  cupolas  looked  almost  dazzling  in  the 
gold.     It  seemed  that  they  were  Capernaum;  but  when 

113 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

we  were  close,  I  saw  a  little  orchard,  two  or  three  low 
buildings  of  volcanic  stone,  a  wall  by  the  water,  and  a 
Franciscan  monk  in  brown  and  a  great  white  helmet 
pacing  slowly  up  and  down  under  some  eucalyptus- 
trees. 

The  father  was  German,  but  he  could  speak  Italian, 
and  in  that  language  he  told  me  that  he  lived  there  quite 
alone,  with  some  dogs,  to  look  after  the  excavations. 
He  showed  me  the  black  and  white  ruins,  and  took 
special  pride  in  the  remains  of  a  large  building  which  he 
said  was  almost  certainly  the  synagogue  in  which  Christ 
taught.  When  I  was  leaving  I  asked  him  if  he  was  not 
terribly  lonely.  "No,"  he  replied;  "on  the  hill  not  far 
off  there  is  an  Italian  colony  of  six  families.  They  are 
making  a  village,  and  many  more  are  coming  from  the 
province  of  Pisa  to  join  them.  They  grow  vines,  they 
farm,  and  they  are  very  happy  here." 

From  Pisa  to  Palestine !  As  I  rowed  away  toward 
Tiberias  I  saw  two  of  these  Italians,  protected  by  white 
umbrellas,  strolling  through  the  masses  of  flowers  along 
the  shore.     So  peace  calls  even  to  far  Italy. 

That  day  I  had  a  cup  of  tea  on  the  terrace  of  the 
Greek  orthodox  monastery  at  Tiberias,  with  Father 
Afranios,  an  Archimandrite.  All  along  the  water  Jews 
from  the  village  were  descending  to  bathe.  The  doctor 
of  the  Scotch  mission,  with  a  plaid  shawl  over  his 
shoulder  and  a  white  umbrella,  went  by  with  two  ladies 
to  his  boat  for  a  water  excursion.    Behind  me  clustered 

114 


•piRFprA'^    WD   TTTl 


\l  ll.KI' 


1  ,  .1.,  ,.  1 l..,:r.i|.ii.  co|.yrii;lil,  Ly  IihIcivsi.i.iI  S  T. nlcnio.nl 


FROM  DAMASCUS  TO  NAZARETH 

the  village,  with  its  small  bazaars,  its  buildings  of  black 
basalt,  its  ruined  walls.  Before  me  stretched  the  still, 
unruffled  waters,  now  shot  with  a  myriad  pale  and  deli- 
cate colors— pinks,  soft  greens,  dim  yellows,  hues  of 
mother-of-pearl. 

Presently  I  rode  out  along  the  shore  to  the  camp, 
which  was  pitched  not  far  from  the  famous  baths  on  a 
sort  of  green  common  dotted  with  bushes  and  rocks. 

The  carriage-road  to  the  baths  lay  in  front,  at  the  edge 
of  the  sea ;  behind  were  the  hills  beyond  which  was 
Nazareth. 

Nearly  always  on  the   road  thin,  pale,  weak-eyed, 
shrunken  Jews,  with  long  side-locks  of  greasy  hair,  and 
fur  and  velvet  hats,  went  by  to  the  baths;  and  I  thought 
of  Pilate,  the  "weary  official"  of  the  cynical  French 
story,  being  stopped  in  his  litter  by  the  young  man  who 
longed  to  know  what  Jesus  of  Nazareth  had  been  like 
when  he  came  before  his  judge.     Women  shrouded  in 
black  passed,  crammed  together  in  wretched  carriages. 
Now  and  again  the  quick  tripping  of  a  horse  was  audi- 
ble, and  a  Bedouin  appeared,  erect,  hooded,  impassive, 
with  his  long  gun  slung  over  his  shoulder.     On  the  road 
before  the  bath-house,  near  the  synagogue  of  the  Se- 
phardim  and  the  tomb  of  Rabbi  Meir,  women  patients 
lay  stretched  on  mattresses  under  heaps  of  blankets. 
Near  them  was  a  boy  with  bandaged  eyes. 

The  evening  softly  fell  over  Galilee  and  its  mountains. 
A  litde  breeze  sprang  up,  and  for  an  hour  ruffled  the 

117 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

waters,  which  turned  to  a  steely  blue.  Then  the  mar- 
velous calm  returned,  and  the  shores,  unspoiled  by  the 
habitations  of  men  except  where  the  village  of  Tiberias 
lies  at  the  foot  of  the  way  to  Jerusalem,  and  the  jungles 
of  bushes  and  grasses  and  flowers,  and  the  immense 
slopes  of  the  far-away  hills,  like  vast  lawns  spread  out 
for  all  the  weary  and  heavy-laden  to  rest  on,  melted 
away  into  the  kindly  night,  and  Galilee  slept,  like  one 
protected. 

THE  APPROACH  TO  NAZARETH 

There  is  a  carriage-road  from  Tiberias  to  Nazareth, 
but  we  avoided  it,  and  mounted  upward  among  the 
corn-fields,  where  women  were  pulling  up  the  weeds  and 
tying  them  into  bundles  to  be  used  as  fodder,  and  the 
fellahs  were  plowing  with  the  rather  elaborate,  but 
primitive-looking,  wooden  instruments  in  six  parts 
which  are  yoked  to  a  couple  of  oxen.  Children,  who 
might  well  be  described  in  the  words  of  the  Arab  prov- 
erb as  clever  chickens  who  crow  in  the  egg,  called  after 
us  lustily.  Flies  buzzed  about  us;  quantities  of  larks 
were  singing ;  sometimes  a  camel  passed.  We  met  some 
Circassians,  in  tall  fur  caps,  riding,  on  thin,  spirited 
horses,  toward  a  Circassian  colony  not  far  off.  We  met, 
too,  a  caravan  of  European  travelers  going  down  to  Tibe- 
rias with  a  music  of  joyously  clanging  bells.  As  they 
vanished  behind  a  grove  of  olives,  we  came  to  Cana  of 
Galilee,  among  the  rounded  and  stony  hills  characteristic 

ii8 


FROM  DAMASCUS  TO  NAZARETH 

of  Palestine,  with  splendid  olives,  prickly  pears,  and  its 
famous  pomegranates  about  it,  above  a  basin  of  culti- 
\ated  ground.      Here  we  had  left  the  Jews  and  come 
to  a  village  of  Syrian  Christians,  with  a  few  Moslems. 
Most  of  the  Christians  belong  to  the  Greek  church,  but 
the  Franciscans  have  a  school  and  a  church.     In  the 
chapel  of  the  Greeks  are  certain  stone  jars  said  to  have 
been  used  at  the  feast  where  Christ  turned  the  water 
into  wine,  and  the  site  of  the  house  of  Nathanael  is  ea- 
gerly shown.     The  village  is  small,  dusty,  stony,  and 
crowded  with  children  and  flies.     From  a  stone  mon- 
astery, shadeless  and  unattractive,  a  German  priest  with 
a  scarlet  face  stared  at  us,  leaning  fat  arms  on  his  win- 
dow-sill.    A  clamor  for  money  pursued  us  down  the 
hillside.     That  afternoon,  from  the  summit  of  Jebel  es- 
Sikh,  I  looked  down  on  Nazareth,  how  eagerly,  how 
almost  anxiously ! 

I  saw  below  me  a  sort  of  cup  of  gentle  hills,  and  upon 
a  rather  steep  slope  that  curved  toward  me  a  gay,  clean - 
looking,  eminently  urbane,  and  almost  complacently 
respectable  town,  or  large  village,  facing  a  scattered 
grove  of  olives  and  other  trees.  It  looked  as  neat  as  a 
new  pin.  The  houses  were  white,  yellow,  gray,  with 
red  roofs  and,  many  of  them,  with  blue  shutters  to  the 
windows,  solidly  built  of  stone,  surely  as  comfortable 
within  as  they  were  spick  and  span  without.  Among 
them,  dominant,  almost  aggressive,  like  an  immense 
hotel,  stood  up  the  Russian  hospice.  Beyond,  in  the 
'»  119 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

distance,  lay  the  great  plain  of  Esdraelon,  or  Jezreel, 
full  of  historic  sites, — Endor,  Nain,  Gilboa,  Megiddo, — 
the  mountains  of  Bashan,  and  a  strange  and  apparently 
artificial  excrescence,  like  an  immense  mound  covered 
with  low  shrubs.  This  last  was  Mount  Tabor.  The 
view  was  fine,  but  I  scarcely  noticed  it;  I  was  intent  on 
the  smart  little  town  at  my  feet.  It  must  surely  be  a 
cheerful,  habitable  place.  It  was  bathed  in  sunshine,  in 
breezes  from  the  hills ;  it  suggested  middle-class  com- 
fort, decent  incomes,  placid,  companionable  people  lead- 
ing unemotional,  self-satisfied  lives. 

THE  ABSENCE  OF  ORIENTAL  QUALITY  AT  NAZARETH 

And  this  was  Nazareth !  How  un-Oriental,  how  almost 
German-Swiss,  it  seemed  to  me  at  that  moment !  I  rode 
down  into  it.  My  first  impression  remained.  We 
camped  on  a  bit  of  waste  ground  that  looked  suburban, 
close  to  the  Russian  monstrosity,  and  at  once  I  set  out 
to  see  the  famous  Mary's  well,  which  was  scarcely  a 
stone's  throw  away.  There  is  very  little  doubt  that  this 
is  the  actual  source  from  which  the  Virgin  Mother  drew 
water  for  the  household  purposes,  and  that  our  Lord 
must  often  have  stood  there.  These  facts  must  forever 
make  it  a  place  of  pilgrimage ;  but  it  has  little  picturesque 
charm.  The  site  is  not  pretty;  indeed,  it  is  almost 
squalid.  It  is  in  the  town,  and  in  rather  a  dingy,  unat- 
tractive quarter,  low  down,  without  brightness,  yet  with- 
out any  compensating  remoteness   or   atmosphere   of 

I20 


l-rom  a  pholograpli,  copyright,  1909,  by  Uuderwuud  &  Underwood 


MAGDALA,  HE  SEA  OF  CJAl 


FROM  DAMASCUS  TO  NAZARETH 

antiquity.  About  it,  however,  gather  the  very  hand- 
some women  of  Nazareth,  tall,  regular  of  feature,  graceful, 
and  wearing  their  long  and  simple  garments  of  white 
and  colored  cotton  with  an  air  of  almost  delicate  aris- 
tocracy. Coming  and  going  upon  the  stone  pavement 
before  the  well  they  are  full  of  vivacity,  and  are  surely 
supreme  as  retailers  of  humble  gossip. 

From  Mary's  well  I  went  through  the  town.  Al- 
though from  a  distance  it  looked  so  strangely  clean  and 
smart,  I  found  plenty  of  Oriental  dirt  in  it,  but  no  Ori- 
ental bustle.  The  streets,  which  run  steeply  up  and 
down  the  hill-slope,  are  narrow,  with  a  raised  pavement 
to  right  and  left  of  a  sort  of  sunken,  paved  trough 
which  is  in  the  middle,  and  which  doubtless  carries  off 
the  water  in  the  rainy  season.  The  uninteresting  bazaars 
are  roofed  in.  The  "atmosphere"  of  Nazareth  seemed 
to  me  very  peculiar.  It  was  not  Oriental.  I  knew  that 
when,  on  passing  the  open  doorway  of  a  sort  of  caf(§,  I 
saw  squatting  on  the  sill  a  wrinkled  Arab  woman  who 
was  beating  a  drum  with  her  corrugated  hands,  while 
within  some  Moslems  were  hoarsely  chanting  a  tune  of 
the  East.  I  longed  to  stop  them.  Such  music  seemed 
as  totally  out  of  place  in  Nazareth  as  would  be  a  Salva- 
tion Army  hymn  in  the  Sahara.  No,  Nazareth  is  not 
Oriental,  nor  is  it  European,  in  atmosphere.  I  felt  in 
it,  as  I  felt  strongly  in  Jerusalem,  a  certain  pretension, 
a  something  disconcerting  and  spurious,  even  a  certain 
confusion,  produced,  I  think,  by  the  fact  that  its  sacred 

123 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

fame  has  drawn  to  it  Christian  pilgrims  of  conflicting 
creeds.  The  lovely,  the  holy  calm  of  Galilee  was  gone. 
I  was  not  to  find  it  again  on  my  journey.  The  inhabit- 
ants of  the  more  famous  places  in  Palestine  are  almost 
forcibly  prevented  from  being  their  natural  selves,  from 
preserving  untarnished  their  individuality.  I  have  not 
space  to  enter  into  questions  of  psychology  here,  but  I 
know  from  Syrians  themselves  how  distracting  to  many 
of  them  have  been  the  efforts  after  conversion,  after 
power,  after  spiritual  and  worldly  domination,  made  by 
the  many  religious  sects  and  societies  which  have  sent 
their  members  to  Palestine.  And  the  confusion  of  the 
people  is  quickly  conveyed  to  any  sensitive  traveler. 
Peace  is  unluckily  not  the  dominant  note  in  the  Holy 
Land,  and  in  Nazareth  I  knew  it.  A  population  of  some 
eleven  thousand,  made  up  of  Moslems,  Orthodox  Greeks, 
United  Greeks,  Latins,  Maronites,  and  Protestants,  is 
scarcely  likely  to  live  in  a  condition  of  holy  calm,  and, 
as  a  fact,  the  people  of  Nazareth  are  extremely  turbulent 
of  disposition,  as  well  as  diverse  in  their  religious  views. 

The  various  "  Holy  Places"  shown  in  Nazareth  have 
no  historic  basis.  The  chief  of  them  are  the  Church  of 
the  Annunciation,  with  the  Column  of  Gabriel  and  the 
Column  of  Mary ;  the  house  of  the  Virgin ;  the  work- 
shop of  Joseph ;  and  the  Mensa  Christi,  at  which  our 
Lord  is  supposed  to  have  eaten  with  the  disciples. 

In  the  Latin  monastery  is  the  Church  of  the  Annuncia- 
tion, with  the  Angel's  Chapel,  and  the  house  and  kitchen 

I  24 


FROM  DAMASCUS  TO  NAZARETH 

of  the  Virgin.  To  enter  it,  I  passed  beneath  an  arch  and 
came  into  a  spacious  court  surrounded  by  buildings,  and 
containing  a  high  column  surmounted  by  a  statue  of  the 
Virgin.  The  church  is  rather  large,  is  paved  in  pink 
and  gray,  has  a  whitewashed  roof  and  hideously  painted 
walls.  By  a  flight  of  steps  you  descend  to  the  site  of 
Mary's  house  and  the  Chapel  of  the  Annunciation, 
where  is  an  altar  with  a  sacred  picture  behind  it.  Here 
you  are  surrounded  by  the  living  rock,  stained  black  and 
gray  except  in  certain  parts,  which  are  cased  in  gray 
marble.  A  grating  in  the  flight  of  steps  shows  where 
the  house  began,  and  before  the  two  final  steps  there  are 
two  side  altars  with  pictures.  Under  the  Virgin's  altar 
four  dim  lights  burn  perpetually.  Passing  through  a 
very  low  doorway,  you  find  yourself  in  a  tiny  cavern  of 
natural  rock  containing  another  altar,  and  a  slight  ascent 
leads  to  a  third  cavern  in  which  I  could  just  stand  up- 
right. This  is  named  the  Madonna's  kitchen,  and  now 
holds  a  very  ancient  stone  cross. 

The  Column  of  Mary,  which  is  supposed  to  be  mirac- 
ulously suspended,  is  of  redgranite  and  is  in  the  Chapel  of 
the  Annunciation.  It  is  very  large,  and  hangs  from  the 
ceiling,  ending,  I  should  say,  about  four  feet  from  the 
ground.  Immediately  beneath  it  the  Virgin  is  said  to 
have  received  the  message  of  the  angel.  Standing  at 
the  top  of  the  stairs,  looking  down  to  the  chapel,  the 
effect  of  mystery  and  dimness,  lit  only  by  the  soft  shin- 
ing of  the  distant  lamps,  is  touching  and  strange.   With- 

125 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

in  the  area  of  the  monastery,  two  months  before  my 
visit,  were  found  four  very  fine  capitals  dating  from  the 
time  of  the  Crusades.  They  are  rough,  but  extremely 
expressive,  with  elaborately  carved  figures.  The 
Franciscan  monks  are  in  charge  of  the  excavations  that 
are  being  carried  on  in  Nazareth.  They  have  been  es- 
tablished there  for  seven  hundred  years.  I  talked  to 
one  of  the  fathers  on  a  sort  of  terrace  commanding  a  fine 
view  close  to  the  supposed  site  of  the  workshop  of 
Joseph,  and  he  showed  me  the  foundations  of  a  Crusa- 
ders' church,  and  gave  me  the  key  of  the  chapel  built 
round  the  Mensa  Christi,  which  is  a  great  block  of 
rough-hewn  stone,  partly  covered  with  a  hideous  and 
gaudy  piece  of  thin  stuff,  red,  yellow,  and  blue.  I  also 
visited  the  synagogue,  now  possessed  by  the  United 
Greeks,  and  not  very  interesting;  the  well-built  and 
beautifully  kept  church  of  Syrian  Protestants ;  and  the 
church  of  the  Orthodox  Greeks,  which  has  some  of  the 
barbaric  fascination  scarcely  ever  absent  from  the  build- 
ings dedicated  to  the  faith  of  Holy  Russia. 

ON  MOUNT  TABOR 

The  ascent  of  Mount  Tabor  is  often  omitted  from  the 
program  of  visitors  to  Nazareth.  I  confess  to  having 
enjoyed  it  much  more  than  my  time  spent  in  the  town. 
Ever  since  the  fourth  century,  Mount  Tabor  has  been 
claimed  as  the  site  of  our  Lord's  Transfiguration.  On 
this  account  monasteries  have  been  built  there.     The 

126 


GATEWAY  AT  TIBERIAS 


From  a  photograph,  copyright,  by  Underwood  X:  Underwood 


FROM  DAMASCUS  TO  NAZARETH 

best  authorities,  however,  think  it  is  improbable  that  the 
Transfiguration  took  place  there,  as  in  our  Lord's  time 
the  summit  was  crowned  by  a  fortified  town.  Never- 
theless, multitudes  of  pio.us  pilgrims,  heedless  of  author- 
ity, and  intent  only  on  earnest  belief,  with  imaginations 
aflame,  wind  up  among  the  little  oaks,  the  terebinths, 
the  bushes  of  sweet-scented  syringa,  the  starry  daisies, 
and  small  scarlet  poppies,  singing  hymns  upon  the  way, 
and  ceasing  only  when  they  reach  the  plateau  on  the 
crest  of  the  helmet-shaped  hill  where  stands  the  Latin 
monastery.  There  they  pause  near  the  door  of  the  little 
chapel,  above  which  is  boldly  written,  "  Hie  Filius  Dei 
Dilectus  Transfiguratus  Est."  The  good  fathers  at  least 
have  no  doubts  as  to  the  sacredness  of  their  strange  and 
beautiful  home,  and  their  quiet  certainty  adds  a  flame 
to  the  fire  of  the  devotees  from  far-off  lands.  I  was 
content  to  drink  in  the  sunny  peace  of  this  height  gar- 
landed with  flowers,  decorated  with  trees  and  shining 
green  shrubs  like  some  delicious  garden,  to  steep  my- 
self in  the  sunlight,  to  listen  to  the  languorous  murmur 
of  uncounted  multitudes  of  bees,  to  feast  my  eyes  upon 
the  mighty  view  stretched  out  beneath  me — the  im- 
mense plain  of  Jezreel,  over  which  I  should  ride  on  the 
morrow,  that  "great  plain"  of  Josephus,  which  divides 
the  ranges  of  Carmel  from  the  delicate  ranges  of  Galilee, 
in  which  at  Endor  the  witch  brought  up  Samuel,  and  at 
Nain  the  widow's  son  was  restored  to  life ;  the  far-off, 
magnificent  Hermon, —  where  perhaps  the  Transfigura- 

129 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

tion  really  took  place, —  lifting  its  crests  of  snow  to  the 
cloudless  sky;  the  blue  Hauran ;  Mount  Carmel;  and, 
sweetest  of  all,  a  section  of  the  waters  of  Galilee.  Two 
great  white  dogs  belonging  to  the  monastery  slept  at 
my  feet.  Doves  were  cooing.  By  the  high  wall,  close 
to  the  sand-colored  church,  the  serene  cypresses  moved 
their  solemn  heads  in  the  marvelous  breeze  that  surely 
came  to  me  from  the  sea  and  the  scented  orange  gardens 
of  Jaffa,  so  perfumed,  so  fresh  it  was.  On  the  green 
seat  recessed  by  the  monastery  door  two  old  i)ilgrims 
were  dreaming,  wide-eyed,  of  the  Holy  City,  and  per- 
haps were  praying  to  die  there  when  the  miracle  of  the 
Holy  Fire  should  be  accomplished,  and  the  Easter  morn- 
ing greeting  said  in  the  Court  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher. 
One  of  the  four  Franciscan  brothers,  in  his  brown  habit, 
passed  by  the  pollarded  Judas-trees  toward  the  ruins  of 
the  castle  which  stood  erect  and  formidable  in  the  Mid- 
dle Ages,  but  which  is  now  only  a  featureless  mass  of 
stones. 

The  two  old  pilgrims  rose  slowly  from  their  seat. 
They  dragged  their  weary  limbs  over  the  sunlit  ground 
till  they  stood,  near  an  ancient  stone  well  with  an  iron 
cross,  before  the  legend,  'T^ic  Filius  Dei  Dilectus 
Transfiguratus  Est."  Then  they  knelt,  crossed  them- 
selves, and  leaning  down,  with  a  simultaneous  move- 
ment that  seemed  to  be  a  movement  rather  of  the  soul 
than  of  the  body,  they  kissed  the  "holy  mountain." 


130 


FROM  NAZARETH  TO  JERUSALEM 


MEN   OF  C.ALILF.K 


IV 
FROM  NAZARETH  TO  JERUSALEM 

1  CAN  NOT  honestly  say  that  I  left  Nazareth  with 
any  great  regret ;  yet,  as  I  rode  out  of  it  in  the  early 
morning,  it  looked  smiling  and  attractive  in  its  cir- 
cle of  hills,  with  its  red  roofs,  its  masses  of  prickly  pear 
growing  among  the  gray  rocks,  its  grassy  slopes,  its 
silver-green  and  yellow-green  trees,  its  gray  stone  walls, 
its  towers.  The  sun  was  just  up.  Already  at  Mary's 
Well  the  graceful  women  were  laughing  and  chattering 
as  they  drew  water  busily  for  household  purposes;  a 
train  of  camels  was  descending  softly  by  the  pathway 
from  Galilee.  White,  blue,  dull  red,  the  color  notes  of 
the  town  struck  a  pleasant  harmony  with  the  green  and 
the  gray  and  the  silver-green  of  nature.  But  from  the 
summit  of  Tabor  I  had  looked  down  over  the  mighty 
plain  of  Jezreel,  and  remembering  the  golden  plain  of  the 
Huleh,  where  I  rested  beneath  the  walnut-tree  while 
Musa  Mustafa  shot  the  wild  duck,  I  longed  once  more 
to  descend  into  the  fertile  bosom  of  Palestine,  to  be  taken 
by  the  grasses  and  flowers,  by  the  rustling  crops  and 
the  thick,  rank  herbage,  to  be  enfolded  by  that  subtle 
and  narcotic  dream  of  the  spring,  which  seems  to  hang, 

135 


THE    HOLY   LAND 

like  a  heavy,  delicious  perfume,  over  the  wide  flats  of 
the  land  of  milk  and  honey.  I  have  often  heard  it  said 
that  Palestine  is  not  a  land  of  much  variety,  even  that 
it  is  very  monotonous.  If  one  compares  it  with  other 
countries,  the  statement  may  be  allowed  to  be  true ;  but 
in  spring  it  affords  delicious  contrasts  of  cold  and  almost 
grievous  sterility  with  soft  and  languorous  opulence, 
the  contrasts  between  the  heights  and  the  plains.  Sad 
and  stony  are  the  hills,  or  sometimes  dull  in  their  rounded 
nudity.  Noble  Hermon,  with  its  glorious  crest  of  snow, 
excites  the  spirit.  But  as  one  rides  through  Palestine, 
the  general  effect  of  the  hills  is  one  that  makes  for  a 
monotony  not  free  from  melancholy.  Monotonous,  too, 
are  the  plains.  But  therein  lies  for  me  their  supreme 
attraction.  As  one  slowly  descends  into  them,  picking 
his  way  among  the  bristling  rocks,  he  has  the  sensation 
of  being  taken  as  by  some  green  and  tranquil  sea,  full 
of  lulling  murmurs,  and  of  movements  that  suggest  pas- 
sivity to  the  mind.  The  wild  flowers  stir  in  the  breeze, 
the  prairies  of  corn  turn  to  a  delicate  pallor  as  the  silken 
wind  bends  each  ear.  In  the  marshes  the  buffaloes  re- 
pose, staring  at  nothing  with  their  light  eyes,  in  which  a 
shallow  idleness  seems  held.  Pigeons  wheel  in  the 
blue;  Gipsies,  Bedouins  pass  by;  Circassians  with  fur 
hats,  men  from  Moab  in  reds  and  blues,  women  whose 
heads  are  surrounded  with  halos  of  coins  set  upright 
on  their  edges  in  rows.  The  fellahs  stand  at  gaze,  or 
follow  the  plow,  or  squat  among  the  crops  over  a  mea- 

136 


FROM  NAZARETH  TO  JERUSALEM 

ger  repast  of  raisins,  figs,  and  dry  bread,  followed  per- 
haps by  a  cigarette,  or  by  some  whiffs  from  a  brown 
pipe  of  clay  with  a  wooden  stem.  Smiling  women, 
barefooted,  and  clad  in  cotton  garments,  with  flowing 
black  head-dresses,  go  to  draw  water,  bearing  on  their 
heads  down-turned  jars  of  earthenware,  some  of  which 
hold  as  much  as  two  gallons,  or  return  with  their  jars 
*  upright,  carried  proudly  with  the  dignity  of  a  supreme 
competence.  At  noon  the  flocks  and  the  herds  are  rest- 
ing, perhaps  among  bushes  of  myrtle ;  and  often  a  young 
shepherd,  leaning  on  his  long  staff,  or  crook,  makes  a 
wonderful  silhouette  as  he  pauses  in  the  bright  sunshine, 
staring  into  the  distance  of  the  green  and  golden  plain. 

THE  ARCADIAN  CHARM  OF  PALESTINE 

Arcady!  It  is  an  Arcady  of  the  East,  and  of  a  charm 
to  me  irresistible.  Cares  drop  away,  are  lost  among 
the  innocent  wild  flowers ;  fears,  anxieties  disperse  on 
the  gentle,  caressing  breezes.  Far  off,  at  evening,  the 
little  white  tent  will  welcome  you ;  and  as  you  see  it  in 
the  distance,  and  your  horse,  lifting  his  head  and  distend- 
ing his  sensitive  nostrils,  neighs  joyously,  you  will  bless 
from  your  heart  the  nomadic  life. 

Surely  no  one  who  has  ridden  hour  after  hour  across 
the  vast  plains  of  Palestine  in  springtime  can  ever  for- 
get their  charm,  their  peculiar,  almost  drug-like  spell, 
irresistible  and  sweet,  giving  a  peace  akin  to  the  peace 
of  a  sleep  blessed,  not  troubled,  by  dreams  to  heart  and 

137 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

brain  —  by  dreams  of  green  and  golden  marshes,  of 
softly,  slowly  moving  oceans  of  corn  and  barley,  of 
mazes  of  wild  flowers  quivering  about  the  tripping  feet 
of  thin  Syrian  horses.  And  so  I  was  in  haste  to  go 
down  into  Esdraelon,  that  mighty  expanse  over  which 
the  hills  of  Nazareth,  the  hills  of  Galilee,  the  mountains 
of  Samaria,  keep  watch ;  which  is  drained  by  the  brook 
Kishon,  the  waters  of  which  swept  away  the  hosts  of 
Sisera,  and  which  teems  with  associations  and  is  dotted 
with  historic  sites. 

My  destination  was  Jenin,  once  Engannim,  on  the 
eastern  border  of  the  plain,  noted  for  its  gardens,  its 
waters,  its  fruit-trees.  I  had  a  seven-hours'  ride  before 
me  —  seven  hours  of  dreams  in  the  brilliant  sunshine, 
of  dreams  of  old  days  of  battle,  of  robber  hordes,  and  of 
deeds  of  mercy  and  horror;  for  here  dwelt  once  the 
widow  woman  of  Nain  in  the  village  whose  name  meant 
"pleasantness  "  ;  here  at  Endor  dwelt  the  witch  to  whom 
Saul  went  disguised  by  night,  who  called  up  Samuel, 
and  who  "saw  gods  ascending  out  of  the  earth";  here, 
at  Megiddo,  Barak  won  his  great  victory,  and  Josiah 
sank  down  in  his  chariot,  pierced  by  the  arrows  of  the 
soldiers  of  Pharaoh  Necho ;  here,  at  Gilboa,  Saul  and 
his  sons  were  killed.  And  Jezebel  knew  this  plain,  and 
must  have  often  looked  out  over  it  from  her  palace  win- 
dows at  Jezreel,  now  a  miserable  and  filthy  village.  Here, 
too,  Jehu  drove  furiously,  and  Gideon  conquered  the 
Midianites. 

138 


rill'.    1)AMASCL1>  L-ATE,  JERUSALEM 


FROM  NAZARETH  TO  JERUSALEM 

In  more  modern  days  this  plain  has  had  an  unenvi- 
able notoriety  as  the  haunt  of  Arab  robbers.  Its  soil  is 
extraordinarily  fertile,  and  as  it  is  almost  as  flat  as  a 
table,  it  is  very  easy  to  cultivate.  When  I  rode  across 
it  the  aspect  it  presented  to  me  was  of  smiling  and 
radiant  peace.  Esdraelon  does  not  compare  for  charm 
and  seductiveness  with  the  plain  of  the  Huleh.  It  is 
more  monotonous  and  less  Arcadian.  There  is  a  cer- 
tain dullness  of  cultivation  which  suggests  the  plodding 
lives  of  poor  men.  There  are  no  buffaloes  wallowing 
in  yellow  flowers.  A  railway  track  has  been  laid  down, 
and  though  I  saw  it  only  for  an  instant  as  we  crossed 
it,  I  received  an  unpleasant  impression  of  being  once 
more  in  touch  with  civilized  traveling  life.  Instead  of 
meeting  on  our  way  bands  of  perhaps  thievish,  but  pic- 
turesque, Gipsies,  clad  in  coats  of  many  colors,  we  en- 
countered only  an  English  clergyman  in  a  sun-helmet 
wending  his  way  toward  Nazareth,  accompanied  by  a 
native  servant.  I  found  it  easy  to  believe  in  deeds  of 
mercy  performed  in  the  bosom  of  Esdraelon  as  I  turned 
my  eyes  toward  Nain,  now  a  tiny  native  village  of  no 
special  interest,  but  more  difficult  to  realize  that  this 
happy-looking  corn-land  from  time  immemorial  had 
been  selected  by  man  as  a  place  of  battle,  of  slaughter, 
and  of  almost  every  sort  of  ill  deed. 

The  approach  to  Jenin  is  enticing,  for  the  village,  or 
little  town,  which  is  inhabited  by  Mohammedans,  of 
whom  there  are  about  three   thousand,   is  deliciously 

141 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

placed  in  the  midst  of  trees  and  verdure,  with  water  and 
grassy  lawns  about  it — lawns  and  gentle  slopes  which 
tempt  the  men  of  Jenin  to  happy  sauntering  with  cigar- 
ette in  mouth,  the  youths  to  quite  "larky"  games  of 
play,  and  the  healthy-looking  children  to  ceaseless  frolic. 
And  the  village  itself,  seen  from  a  little  distance,  has 
the  peculiar  and  ineffable  charm,  the  strange,  summon- 
ing attraction,  which  Mohammedan  builders  alone,  it 
seems,  know  how  to  give  to  their  mosques,  their  bath- 
houses, their  dwellings. 

As  Damascus,  seen  from  afar,  has  a  fairy  look  of  al- 
most piercing,  yet  delicate,  romance,  so  tiny  Jenin,  in 
its  different  way,  has  a  fairy  look,  with  its  small  mina- 
ret, its  cupolas,  its  flat  roofs  peeping  over  the  trees. 
Long  I  gazed  at  it  that  day  and  that  evening  till  the 
darkness  fell,  yet  never  ceased  to  feel  its  summons, 
which  was  like  the  voice  of  an  Eastern  siren,  whisper- 
ing: "Come,  I  will  show  you  romance.  In  my  strange 
ways  there  is  fascination.  Among  my  shadows,  where 
my  fountain  falls,  beauty  lies  in  hiding  "  But  I  was 
very  wise,  for  I  never  entered  Jenin.  Its  ancient  name 
means  "fountain  of  gardens,"  and  it  is  beheved  to  be 
the  site  of  the  "garden  house"  by  which  King  Ahaziah 
fled  from  Jehu.  When  the  night  fell,  a  heavy  dew  lay 
on  the  gra-ss  about  the  tents ;  a  slight,  pearly  mist  hung 
over  the  still  water  in  a  marshy  place  near  by,  where 
frogs  lifted  their  voices;  and  all  night  long  foxes  were 
crying  out,  and  hyenas  uttering  their  short,  menacing 

142 


FROM  NAZARETH  TO  JERUSALEM 

bark,  which  seems  to  come  from  the  depths  of  a  bad 
temper  through  a  sore  throat. 

THE  MODERN  SAMARIA 

Our   destination    next  day  was    Nablus,  the    ancient 
Shechem,  once  the  chosen  home  of  the  Samaritans  and 
the  capital  town  of  Palestine.     On  the  way  I  made  a 
slight  detour,  and  an  ascent  into  the  mountains,  to  visit 
Samaria.     This  is  now  a  dirty  and  uncared-for  village, 
in  a  superb  situation,  commanding  a  glorious  view  ex- 
tending to  the  blue  waters  of  the  Mediterranean  Sea.     I 
dismounted  on  reaching  the  village,  and,  pioneered  by 
two  or  three  greedy  villagers,  who  gazed  at  my  pockets 
as  if  they  were  places  of  interest  far  superior  to  Samaria, 
climbed  some  steep  ground  under  a  burning  sun  to  see 
the  site  of  Ahab's  ivory  palace  and  the  street  of  col- 
umns.    There  were  a  good  many  fragments  of  ruins 
here,  and  many  columns  without  capitals;  but  the  glory 
of  the  place  is  the  view.     Omri,  like  the  ancient  Greeks, 
knew  where  to  build,  and  must  have  loved  wide  pros- 
pects; perhaps  in  this  love,  shared  by  a  good  many  of 
us,  ignorantly  showing  the  criminal  instinct  somewhere 
attributed  by  Lombroso  to  those  who  take  delight  in 
gazing  upon  great  distances. 

Below  the  village  is  the  mosque  which  was  formerly 
the  Church  of  St.  John,  built  by  Crusaders.  The  vil- 
lagers here  have  a  very  bad  reputation.  They  are 
fanatically  religious,  and  appear   to  combine  this  too 

143 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

animated  ardor  with  a  vital  propensity  for  the  picking  of 
pockets,  in  which  branch  of  subtle  agility  they  might 
give  points  to  a  Fagin.  Having  been  previously  warned 
of  their  talents,  I  escaped  from  their  attentions  intact, 
and  again  rode  joyously  down  into  the  valley. 

Nablus  is  only  about  fourteen  hours'  ride  from  Jeru- 
salem, and  at  a  good  distance  from  it  I  began  to  be 
aware  at  last  that  I  was  nearing  a  great  center.  The 
fascination  of  the  wilds  gave  place  to  a  different  fascina- 
tion, emanating  from  the  activity  of  men.  The  feet  of 
our  horses  rang  on  a  hard  highroad,  on  each  side  of 
which  were  groves  of  superb  old  olive-trees,  veterans 
of  the  race,  with  trunks  that  looked  Rembrandtesque, 
and  with  noble  crowns  of  green  and  silver.  And  upon 
this  highway  we  met  men  surely  of  substance,  mounted 
on  fine,  fiery  horses ;  and  with  us,  approaching  the  city, 
were  caravans.  The  hum  of  life  was  about  us,  waking 
excitement  in  us  and  our  beasts,  and  as  we  wound  up- 
ward, and  saw  the  solid  stone  houses  of  the  town  of  the 
olives,  where  still  linger  some  pale  Samaritans  under 
the  shadow  of  Gerizim, —  that  mountain  from  which  the 
people  of  Israel  were  blessed  when  they  came  into  the 
Land  of  Promise, — we  forgot  the  wilds,  and  rejoiced  in 
the  cheeriness  and  the  gaiety  of  eager  humanity. 

We  camped  above  the  town  in  a  forest  of  olives,  and 
there  I  was  visited  in  the  evening  by  Samaritans,  and  in 
the  early  morning  by  seven  lepers.  The  Samaritans 
came  drifting  up  the  hill  with  a  curious  air  of  fatigue  and 

144 


RUINS  OF  SAMARIA,  THE  NORTHERN  CAPITAL 


stereograph,  copyright. 


I  At  Underwood 


FROM  NAZARETH  TO  JERUSALEM 

vagueness,  three  tall,  tired  youths,  with  decadent  faces, 
small-boned  limbs,  a  loose  and  shambling  gait,  that  re- 
minded me  of  the  gait  of  an  unfortunate  Chinese  giant 
whom  I  once  saw  sadly  displaying  his  too  many  inches 
in  an  exhibition.  When  they  reached  the  tent  door, 
and  stood  still,  gazing  upon  me  with  mournful  eyes,  they 
looked  like  strange  esthetes  of  the  Eastern  world,  with 
drooping  hands  that  should  have  held  drooping  lilies. 
Yet,  though  they  drooped,  and  had  a  feeble  aspect  that 
some  might  have  thought  gende,  as  they  stayed  with 
me  I  received  from  them  an  unpleasant  impression  as  of 
a  still  —  I  might  almost  say  subterranean  —  venom,  of  a 
white  pertinacity  akin  to  a  white  heat.  And  this  strange 
race,  now  almost  extinct,  has  always  been  famous  for 
malice,  for  pertinacity,  for  fanaticism,  and  for  a  certain 
dogged  indifference  to  the  opinions  of  those  whose 
power  has  been  greater  than  its  own. 

THE  REMNANT  OF  THE  SAMARITANS 

It  is  true  that  in  the  mind  of  the  Christian  world  a 
parable  has  forever  fixed  the  expression,  "  the  good  Sa- 
maritan"; but  the  Samaritans,  who  always  affirmed  that 
they  were  descended  from  Jacob,  were  opponents  of 
Christianity  in  the  first  years  after  Christ,  and  when 
Christ  was  alive  they  refused  him  hospitality.  Their 
hatred  of  the  Jews  was  intense,  and  the  Jews  repaid  it, 
and  even  went  so  far  as  to  deny  that  the  Samaritans 
would  rise  again  at  the  last  day. 

147 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

Thirty-eight  years  ago  in  all  Palestine  there  were  only 
two  hundred  of  them,  most  of  whom  dwelt  at  Nablus. 
Now,  I  am  told,  there  are  very  few,  less  than  a  hundred. 
The  youths  who  visited  me  looked  like  the  last  survi- 
vors of  a  race  that  had  almost  decayed  from  the  face  of 
the  earth.  Yet  the  families  that  remain  still  hold  them- 
selves apart  from  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  still  worship 
in  their  own  little  synagogue  in  the  city,  and  celebrate 
the  Passover  on  Mount  Gerizim,  where  the  Samaritans 
built  a  temple  both  because  they  needed  a  place  of  wor- 
ship and  as  a  mark  of  their  hostility  to  the  Jews,  who 
had  refused  to  allow  them  to  help  in  the  rebuilding  of  the 
temple  at  Jerusalem.  And  of  course  they  still  preserve 
the  Samaritan  codex  of  the  Pentateuch.  One  can  only 
respect  their  extraordinary  tenacity,  their  rigid  determi- 
nation not  to  be  absorbed,  but  to  remain  in  every  sense 
true  Samaritans,  few  though  they  are,  and  dwellers  in  the 
midst  of  a  hostile  and  fanatical  population  almost  wholly 
Moslem.  One  can  respect  them,  but,  judging  by  my  Sa- 
maritan visitors,  I  should  say  it  would  be  difficult  to 
love  them  or  to  trust  them.  After  remaining  with  me 
for  some  time  the  three  youths  suggested  that  I  should 
give  them  a  little  money,  as  an  acknowledgment  of  my 
own  hospitality,  I  suppose.  I  complied, —  when  does 
the  traveler  in  the  East  not  comply?  —  and  with  many 
languid  salutations  they  drifted  away  among  the  trunks 
of  the  olives,  and  faded  into  the  city. 

Nablus  has  a  bad  reputation,  and  though  in  my  wan- 

148 


FROM  NAZARETH  TO  JERUSALEM 

derings  through  its  narrow  and  often  dark  streets  I  was 
never  insulted  or  pelted,  I  was  often  aware  of  a  silent 
but  intense  hostility,  such  as  I  used  to  be  aware  of  years 
ago  when  I  was  in  Morocco,  and  walked  through  the 
filthy  alleys  and  teeming  bazaars  of  Tetuan.  "Chris- 
tian dog!"  I  saw  that  in  many  pairs  of  glittering  eyes 
as  they  stared  at  me.  The  houses  are  solid  and  often 
large,  and  some  of  them  look,  and  are,  very  ancient. 
An  Arab  bath-house  that  I  visited,  is  said  to  be  some 
hundreds  of  years  old.  It  was  swarming  with  cock- 
roaches, which  covered  the  walls,  and  crept  everywhere 
over  the  pavements  of  marble.  As  I  emerged  from  it 
into  the  street,  a  huge  rat  scampered  in  front  of  me,  as 
if  to  show  me  the  way  out  of  the  vaporous  darkness. 
Night  was  falling,  was  shrouding  the  minarets  and  the 
numberless  cupolas,  was  filling  the  arcades  with  shadows 
out  of  which  rose  mysterious  voices  and  the  violent  cries 
of  the  East.  When  I  returned  to  my  tent  in  the  forest 
of  olives,  the  dogs  of  the  town  —  it  seemed  in  scores  — 
had  assembled  themselves  together  to  serenade  my 
slumbers.     I  woke  to  the  seven  lepers. 

There  were  four  men  and  three  women,  and  they 
were  crouched  in  the  heavy  dew  upon  the  short  grass 
at  the  foot  of  the  little  slope  that  lay  beyond  the  camp. 
As  I  glanced  at  them  for  a  moment,  I  did  not  realize 
their  horrible  condition,  for  they  were  muffled  up,  and 
looked  rather  like  monstrous  bundles.  But,  seeing  me, 
the   bundles    stirred.      Shattered  faces  came  —  I    can 

149 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

scarcely  say  looked  —  forth;  arms  and  hands  as  twisted 
as  the  trunks  of  old  olives ;  legs  and  feet,  distorted,  eaten 
away.  They  rose  up  out  of  the  sea  of  dew,  and  came 
whimpering  for  alms.  Who  could  refuse  them?  Un- 
like the  pale  Samaritans,  the  lepers  did  not  depart  with 
their  gift  to  their  own  place.  They  returned  to  the  foot 
of  the  slope,  crouched  down  in  line,  and  pulled  their 
draperies  about  them;  and  there  they  remained  when 
the  camp  was  struck  and  we  set  out  for  Sinjil. 

THE    TOMB    OF    JOSEPH 

Soon  after  leaving  the  city  we  came  to  the  tomb  of 
Joseph  and  the  well  by  which  Jesus  is  said  to  have  met 
the  woman  of  Samaria,  and  which  is  called  Jacob's  Well. 
The  tomb  is  close  to  the  village  of  Asker,  a  strange 
rummage  of  Oriental  habitations  and  earth-walled 
courts,  in  which  I  caught  gUmpses  of  women  literally 
smothered  in  pigments,  with  halos  of  coins  set  on  edge 
around  their  heads.  In  the  glaring  sunshine,  and  in  sur- 
roundings suggestive  of  poverty  hand  in  hand  with  dirt, 
these  painted  and  dyed  household  drudges  —  for  they 
all  seemed  busy  with  mysterious  and  ungraceful  tasks 
—  looked  as  out  of  place  and  unsuitable  as  would  pea- 
cocks on  a  dust-heap.  Their  arms  were  covered  with 
bracelets,  and  their  fingers  with  rings,  and  charms  of 
various  kinds  were  hung  about  their  necks.  Some  of 
them  were  very  handsome,  and  their  halos  suited  them 
almost  as  well  as  in  Italian  pictures  their  halos  suit  the 
saints ;  but  there  is  always  to  me  something  peculiarly 

150 


From  a  photograph,  copyright.  I>y  Underwood  A-  l"nderwood 


NAZARETH 


FROM  NAZARETH  TO  JERUSALEM 

revolting  in  that  combination  of  finery,  paint,  and  dirt 
which  seems  so  attractive  to  the  Eastern.  And  when 
the  early  morning  sunshine  gleams  on  rouge  and  henna 
and  kohl,  one  is  aware  of  great  indiscretion,  if  not  of 
active  cruelty,  on  the  part  of  the  sun. 

The  tomb  of  Joseph,  whitewashed  and  quite  modern, 
is  in  a  small  building  access  to  which  is  gained  through 
a  courtyard  where  I  found  a  Mohammedan  schoolmas- 
ter comfortably  established,  with  some  twenty  small 
pupils  who  were  busily  murmuring  passages  from  the 
Koran.  Strung  across  the  tomb  chamber  were  strings 
on  which  hung  quantities  of  votive  rags.  The  school- 
master acted  as  guide  to  the  tomb,  and  informed  me 
that  it  is  absolutely  certain  that  Joseph  was  buried  there. 
More  interesting,  and  far  more  charming,  is  Jacob's 
Well. 

Jacob's  well 

This  is  one  of  the  best  authenticated  holy  places  in  all 
Palestine,  that  land  where  the  pilgrim  has  to  take  much 
on  trust,  and  the  Greek  church  has  it  happily  in  posses- 
sion. There  is  very  little,  if  any,  doubt  that  Jesus  really 
sat  by  this  well,  and  there  said  those  words  which  have 
driven  strong  men  to  the  cloister,  and  drawn  young  girls 
from  the  dawning  pleasures  of  life  to  the  silence  behind 
the  grille :  "  God  is  a  Spirit :  and  they  that  worship  Him 
must  worship  Him  in  spirit  and  in  truth."  Pilgrims 
throng  to  this  small  inclosure,  with  its  low-roofed  house 

^53 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

for  their  entertainment,  its  chapel  built  about  the  well, 
its  bushes  covered  with  tiny  pink  roses ;  but  when  I  was 
there  the  hour  was  so  early  that  not  even  a  patient  and 
pathetic  Russian  was  before  me.  Birds  were  singing 
above  the  roses.  From  the  hospice  came  a  young  man 
in  the  habit  of  a  monk  to  take  me  to  the  well.  It  is  very 
deep,  and  he  let  down  a  wooden  tray  with  candles  stuck 
upon  it  to  light  up  the  darkness,  till  far  below  I  saw  a 
gleam  of  still  water.  As  I  looked,  bending  over  the 
small  orifice,  with  the  silent  monk  beside  me,  I  remem- 
bered those  other  words  said  here  so  many  hundreds  of 
years  ago:  "Whosoever  drinketh  of  this  water  shall 
thirst  again :  but  whosoever  drinketh  of  the  water  that 
I  shall  give  him  shall  never  thirst." 

As  I  left,  the  monk  gave  me  a  bunch  of  pink  roses ; 
and  I  kept  them  long  after  the  color  had  faded  from  them 
and  their  tiny  petals  had  shriveled  up. 

When  we  rode  away,  and  came  to  a  good  road,  bor- 
dered by  olive  groves,  something  prompted  me  to  ask 
my  Syrian  companion  whether  there  were  cuckoos  in 
Palestine.  There  was  something  so  lively  and  spring- 
like in  the  air  that  it  made  me  think  of  England,  and  of 
the  yellow  clouds  of  primroses  in  copses  full  of  flicker- 
ing lights  and  gentle  shadows.  He  had  never  heard  of 
the  cuckoo,  and  when  I  imitated  its  call,  he  did  not  know 
it.  About  half  an  hour  later  a  cuckoo  sang  out  lustily. 
My  companion  pulled  up  his  horse,  and  we  listened  to 
that  music  of  spring  which  in  more  than  twenty  years 

154 


FROM  NAZARETH  TO  JERUSALEM 

of  a  life  spent  always  in  Syria  he  had  never  before 
heard.  Soon  after  the  voice  of  the  cuckoo  had  faded 
away,  we  turned  our  horses'  heads  to  the  left,  and  struck 
into  the  mountains.  Bethel  lay  in  the  distance,  but  I 
did  not  go  there.  I  wished  to  see  Shiloh,  the  "place  of 
rest,"  where  the  tabernacle  once  stood  in  Ephraim,  and 
where  the  Philistines  came  to  take  away  the  ark  of  the 
covenant.  We  rode  up  a  naked  and  stony  gully,  grad- 
ually ascending,  and  presently  leaving  far  down  on  our 
left  a  stream,  which  flowed  among  rocks,  and  occasion- 
ally was  formed  by  them  into  shining  pools.  The  heat 
was  intense  as  noontide  drew  near.  Our  horses  sweated 
as  they  scrambled  upward.  The  bare  flanks  of  the  hills 
gleamed  cruelly  in  the  tremendous  blaze.  Presently, 
far  below,  I  heard  a  thin  music,  rustic  and  reedy,  and 
as  definitely  and  delightfully  "countrified,"  almost 
clownish, —  using  the  word  in  its  true,  not  in  its  ugly 
and  exaggerated,  sense, —  as  the  music  that  in  an  or- 
chestra comes  from  the  oboe,  and  at  once  makes  one 
think  of  places  that  shepherds  love  and  of  fleecy  flocks. 
I  pulled  up,  and  some  hundreds  of  feet,  I  suppose,  be- 
neath me  I  saw  some  Syrian  herdsmen  bathing  in  a 
pool  of  the  rocks,  while  one  sat  near  them  and  piped. 
The  sun  shone  fiercely  on  skins  of  bronze.  A  cry  came 
up  to  us,  then  a  shout  of  laughter,  and  both  were  clad 
as  in  a  garment  of  music ;  and  the  musician,  the  bathers, 
we,  and  all  the  hills,  were  clad  in  a  garment  of  fire. 
Since  that  day,  in  lands  of  darkness,  I  have  remembered 

155 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

that  moment,  and  the  joy  of  the  open-air  Hfe  in  the  Holy 
Land  has  caught  me  by  the  throat. 

SHILOH,   THE  "PLACE  OF  REST  " 

There  is  scarcely  anything  to  see  at  Shiloh.  We 
reached  a  sort  of  plateau,  where  there  were  low  stone 
walls,  and  such  masses  of  stones  everywhere  that  we  dis- 
mounted and  led  our  horses  till  we  stood  on  the  spot 
where  once  there  was  a  city,  the  tabernacle,  the  ark  of 
the  covenant.  Now  there  are  only  a  few  bits  of  ruin  of 
very  little  interest,  heaped  among  the  stones  and  the 
patches  of  cultivation.  The  village  near  by  is  called 
Seilun. 

From  Shiloh  it  was  an  easy  ride  to  our  last  camping- 
ground,  Sinjil,  which  we  reached  about  three  in  the  after- 
noon. 

It  was  a  pleasant  place  that  had  been  chosen  for  the 
last  night  in  the  tents,  always  a  night  of  keen  regret, 
but  also  of  that  keen  enjoyment  —  enjoyment  with  a 
sharp  edge  to  it  —  which  belongs  to  the  pleasure  which 
is  nearly  at  an  end.  High  up  in  the  hills,  in  the  midst 
of  a  great,  grassy  circle,  the  camp  was  pitched,  looking 
over  a  wide  prospect  of  rolling  slopes  and  crests  and 
ridges,  now  gradually  assuming  that  peculiar,  delicately 
mysterious,  and  almost  shy  beauty  that  becomes  ever 
more  and  more  romantic  as  the  afternoon  light  slips  into 
the  bosom  of  the  radiance  of  evening.  At  a  little  dis- 
tance on  the  brow  of  the  hill  was  a  native  village,  the 

156 


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PLAIN  OF  DOTHAN,  PALESTINE 


FROM  NAZARETH  TO  JERUSALEM 

inhabitants  of  which  evidently  hved  the  pastoral  life  with 
completeness ;  for  there  was  a  great  bleating  and  low- 
ing of  flocks  and  herds,  and  as  I  sat  having  tea  be- 
fore the  tent,  in  that  most  delicious  hour  of  the  traveler's 
day,  I  saw  multitudes  of  sheep  and  cattle  being  driven 
by  toward  the  huddled  houses  among  the  stone  walls. 
The  drivers  were  quite  small  children.  They  laughed 
and  begged,  but  discreetly,  as  they  passed.  And  later, 
when  their  duties  were  accomplished,  they  returned  to 
squat  on  the  grass  and  to  gaze,  upon  my  cook's  prepar- 
ation of  dinner. 

FROM    AND    TO    JERUSALEM 

That  evening  a  second  camp  arrived,  to  the  music  of 
many  bells.  It  belonged  to  two  Englishmen  who  had 
left  Jerusalem  in  the  morning,  and  who  were  on  their 
way  to  make  the  ascent  of  Mount  Hermon.  After 
dinner  they  paid  me  a  visit.  When  they  heard  that  I  was 
bound  for  Jericho  and  Jerusalem,  and  that  I  meant  to 
be  present  at  all  the  Holy  Week  and  Easter  ceremonies, 
including  that  of  the  Holy  Fire,  they  said,  in  effect,  "We 
pity  you."  Remembering  my  experience  in  the  deadly 
cold  of  the  haunt  of  bears,  I  secretly  returned  their  com- 
passion as  I  asked  them  why.  They  described  to  me 
the  crowded  and  turbulent  state  of  Jerusalem,  and  dwelt 
specially  on  the  scenes  which  were  likely  to  take  place 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher,  which,  from 
their  account,  seemed  to  be  the  center  of  all  the  strife, 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

hatred,  and  greed,  as  well  as  of  most  of  the  worship  and 
adoring  love,  in  the  sacred  city.  And  one  of  them  actually 
tried  to  dissuade  me  from  my  intention  of  witnessing 
the  Holy  Fire,  at  which  ceremony,  he  said,  it  was  almost 
certain  that  there  would  be  a  riot,  in  which  numbers  of 
people  would  probably  be  crushed  to  death.  I  replied 
that  I  preferred  a  riot  in  the  Church  of  the  Holy 
Sepulcher  to  a  night  in  a  cave  on  the  summit  of  Hermon. 
And  so  we  parted  amicably,  each  one  intent  on  the  crazy 
proceeding  that  his  temperament  cried  out  for. 

On  the  following  morning  I  got  up  while  it  was  still 
quite  dark,  and  on  the  height  where  we  had  slept  the 
heavy  dews  were  lying.  The  strange  cold  that  pre- 
cedes the  dawn  enveloped  us.  I  heard  outside  the 
steady  and  small  sound  made  by  the  hobbled  horses 
and  mules  persistently  cropping  the  grass,  and  the  lively 
voices  of  the  men,  excited  by  the  thought  of  soon  see- 
ing their  homes  and  families,  and  of  receiving  the  bak- 
shish they  had  well  earned  by  their  hard  work  on  our 
journey.  Faintly  from  the  distance  came  the  barking 
of  dogs  and  the  lowing  of  cattle.  I  opened  the  tent 
door  and  smelled  the  pungent  odor  of  coffee.  As  the 
dawn  broke,  I  saw  my  acquaintances  of  the  previous 
night  mounting  their  horses,  apparently  eager  to  cover 
the  long  distance  that  stretched  between  them  and  the 
snow-crowned  heights  of  Hermon.  The  tents  collapsed, 
and  suddenly  a  lonely,  unfurnished  bareness  took  the 
place  of  the  coziness  of  home,  and  I  ceased  to  regret, 

i6o 


FROM  NAZARETH  TO  JERUSALEM 

and  began  to  look  forward  eagerly.  My  cook  bade  me 
farewell,  and  sprang  on  to  his  horse.  He  had  vowed 
to  be  first  in  Jerusalem.  With  a  loud  cry  he  struck  his 
heels  into  his  horse's  sides,  and  went  off  at  a  break- 
neck gallop.  A  pale  gleam  of  the  sun  touched  the  ridge 
of  a  hill  in  the  east.  The  bells  chimed  on  the  necks  of 
the  pack-mules.  Soon  we  were  once  more  on  a  high- 
road, with  our  faces  turned  toward  Jerusalem. 

During  the  first  hours  of  the  journey  the  sun  shone 
brightly,  but  as  we  drew  nearer  to  the  city,  and  long  be- 
fore we  could  see  it,  clouds  began  to  gather  in  the  sky, 
and  when  we  stopped  to  lunch,  while  yet  two  hours  from 
it,  the  sun  was  hidden,  a  cold  wind  swept  over  the  hills, 
and  some  raindrops  pattered  in  our  faces.  We  crouched 
down  under  a  low  stone  wall  in  a  place  where  olive- 
trees  were  sparsely  dotted  about  among  gray  rocks,  and 
I  remembered  the  slopes  of  Hermon. 

Upon  the  road  near  to  us  strings  of  camels  continu- 
ally went  by,  Syrians  and  Arabs  on  horseback,  women 
holding  draperies  to  their  mouths  and  carrying  bundles, 
children  on  donkeys.  Now  and  then  a  carriage  passed, 
filled  with  travelers  from  Europe  or  America.  The 
wind  increased.  The  land  looked  inhospitable,  cruel. 
And  when  we  rode  on  again,  I  was  filled  with  wonder 
that  a  great  city  should  ever  have  been  built  on  the  site 
of  Jerusalem. 

The  country  about  Jerusalem  is  essentially  a  pale 
country.     Indeed,  I  often  thought  it  looked  stricken,  as 

i6i 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

if  its  pallor  had  come  upon  it  abruptly,  had  been  sent  to 
it  as  a  visitation.  I  was  not  sorry  that  I  saw  it  first 
under  grayness  and  swept  by  winds.  The  grayness, 
the  winds,  seemed  to  me  to  emphasize  its  truth,  to  drive 
home  its  reality.  And  there  was  something  noble  in 
its  candor.  Even  Nature  can  take  on  an  aspect  of 
trickiness  at  times,  or  at  least  a  certain  coquetry,  a  dainti- 
ness not  wholly  free  from  suggestions  of  artiiiciality. 
The  landscape  in  the  midst  of  which  Jerusalem  lies 
is  dreary,  is  sad;  in  stormy  weather  is  almost  forbid- 
ding: yet  it  has  a  bare  frankness  that  renders  it  digni- 
fied, a  large  simplicity  that  is  very  striking.  The  frame 
is  sober,  the  picture  within  it  is  amazing;  and  neither, 
once  seen,  can  ever  be  forgotten. 


162 


CRUSADERS'   ARCH  AND  TOWER  AT  RAMLEH 


From  a  photograph,  copyriyht.  liy  Inderwood  A:  I  ndem-ood 


FROM  JERICHO  TO   BETHLEHEM 


V 

FROM  JERICHO  TO  BETHLEHEM 

JERICHO  has  much  of  the  pecuHar  fascination  that 
belongs  to  an  oasis.  It  is  a  tract  of  rich,  sub- 
tropical fertility,  guarded  sternly,  as  if  it  were  some 
precious  jewel,  by  sterility.  And  the  sterility  is  as  grand 
as  the  jewel  is  enticing.  There  is  nothing  in  the  Holy 
Land  more  impressive  than  the  country  that  lies  about 
Jericho.  It  has  a  vigorous  wildness,  essentially  and 
splendidly  masculine,  which  uplifts  the  spirit  of  man. 
It  is  an  ascetic,  but  it  is  also  a  tonic  region ;  a  place  for 
robbers,  but  also  for  anchorites,  for  the  activities  of 
crime,  but  also  for  the  activities  of  saintliness.  One 
might  easily  fall  among  thieves  in  that  strange  but  pro- 
foundly interesting  turmoil  of  rocks  and  ravines  and 
mountains.  And  might  not  one  as  easily  be  fed  by 
ravens  ?  The  traveler,  if  he  be  at  all  imaginative,  can 
almost  believe  it.  For  nature  there  has  an  impress  that 
seems  eloquent  of  an  almighty  hand.  And  this  impress, 
formidable  and  glorious,  has  deeply  affected  the  sensitive 
souls  of  men. 

'^  167 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

An  extraordinary  population  has  been  drawn  to  the 
savage  neighborhood  of  the  Dead  Sea,  a  population  of 
anchorites,  solitaries,  mortifiers  of  the  flesh,  monks,  and 
mere  eccentrics;  these  last  probably  men  of  unstable 
mental  equilibrium,  whose  imaginations  have  been  in- 
flamed by  the  combination  of  marvelous  tradition  with 
marvelous  nature,  and  who  have  thought  to  be  wonder- 
ful in  the  midst  of  wonder. 

As  one  travels  to  Jericho,  if  one  leaves  the  highway 
now  and  then  for  a  track  in  the  hills,  one  can  look  down 
from  afar  upon  the  scattered  homes  of  these  people  of  the 
wilderness.  Before  them,  perhaps,  are  tiny  and  mean- 
dering terraces,  with  minute  alcoves  perched  above 
beetling  precipices.  Some  are  bordered  by  tracts  of 
desolation  which  I  have  heard  called  gardens.  Very  sel- 
dom does  one  spy  out  any  inhabitant.  But  now  and  then 
a  black,  doll-like  figure  may  be  discerned  moving  among 
the  labyrinthine  rocks,  leaning  on  a  parapet,  descending 
a  staircase  or  ladder,  creeping  almost  like  a  fly  along  the 
mountain-side  with  a  pannier  of  provisions,  or  letting 
down  a  water-basket  from  on  high  into  the  trickle  of  the 
Kedron.  In  and  about  the  ravine  of  the  Kedron  an- 
chorites have  loved  to  dwell,  in  the  "monk's  valley" 
which  eventually  merges  into  the  Wadi-en-Nar,  or 
"Valley  of  fire."  All  this  region  recalls  to  one's  mind 
the  history  of  Elijah,  so  full  of  drama,  and  that  "school 
of  Prophets"  which,  perhaps  a  mere  name  till  one  has 
"gone  down"  from  Jerusalem   unto  Jericho,  remains 

i68 


THK    RIX'ER   lOR'-'^^ 


FROM  JERICHO  TO  BETHLEHEM 

ever  after  in  the  memory  a  living  reality.  One  has  seen 
the  place  of  the  Prophets,  and  henceforth  one  thinks  of 
them  not  as  fantastic  and  almost  impossible  beings,  un- 
natural anywhere,  a  sort  of  visitation  sent  down  upon  a 
heedless  world,  but  as  men  belonging  to  their  world  and 
their  time,  no  longer  unnatural,  meet  children  of  this 
astounding  mother  at  whose  breast  they  were  suckled, 
out  of  whose  arms  they  rose,  to  direct  and  to  denounce. 
Even  religion,  even  the  consuming  love  of  God,  must, 
one  feels,  have  had  in  it  something  savage,  stern,  even 
something  bitter,  in  such  a  tract  of  the  world  as  this, 
before  the  teaching  of  Christ. 

In  going  to  Jericho  I  visited  Bethany,  where  Christ 
raised  Lazarus  from  the  dead,  and  where  he  often  re- 
tired to  rest  in  the  house  of  Mary  and  Martha.  Beth- 
any is  a  small  village  of  gray  houses  spread  out  on  a 
slope  of  the  Mount  of  Olives,  with  some  fruit-trees  and 
olives  about  it,  overlooked  by  a  Russian  church  with  a 
cupola  and  tower,  where  it  is  said  that  Mary  met  our 
Lord  and  begged  him  to  come  to  Lazarus.  Most  of 
the  houses  are  now  inhabited  by  Mohammedans.  I 
descended  a  number  of  steep  steps  in  darkness  to  see 
the  place  called  the  Tomb  of  Lazarus,  a  sort  of  cavern 
excavated  in  the  limestone,  in  which  the  Franciscan 
fathers  occasionally  say  mass.  I  was  also  shown  the 
massive  ruins  of  the  House  of  Simon  the  Leper  and  the 
House  of  Mary  and  Martha.  The  latter  name  is  given 
to  an  arch  and  a  small,  rough  bit  of  wall  contained  in 

171 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

an  inclosure  full  of  brambles,  grass,  poppies,  and  wild 
cactus.  A  pomegranate-tree  also  raises  its  head  there. 
A  bird  was  singing.  A  light  breeze  stirred  the  heads  of 
the  poppies.  The  cries  of  little,  playing  Mohammedans 
came  to  me  from  without.  The  authenticity  of  this 
holy  place  is,  I  believe,  very  doubtful.  The  age  of  the 
fragments  of  ruin  is  not  known,  nor  is  it  established 
that  their  site  is  the  site  where  she  who  sat  at  our 
Lord's  feet,  and  she  who  was  cumbered  with  much 
serving,  once  had  their  humble  dwelling.  Yet  that  small 
inclosure  remains  in  my  memory  as  a  sweet  and  touch- 
ing place,  perhaps  because  it  has  been  let  alone  —  left 
to  the  poppies  and  the  grasses  instead  of  stiffly  planted 
with  marigolds  and  stocks.  In  it  one  can  understand 
that  Christ  found  peace  at  Bethany,  and  loved  to  come 
there  from  the  turmoil  of  Jerusalem.  The  name,  Beth- 
any, is  said  by  some  to  mean  house  of  affliction;  by 
others,  house  of  dates,  though  the  latter,  in  the  East, 
could  surely  never  be  also  the  former. 

It  was  after  leaving  Bethany,  and  getting  into  the 
highway  which  eventually  descends  to  the  plain  where 
Jericho  lies,  that  I  for  the  first  time  saw  the  most  touch- 
ing sight  in  the  Holy  Land,  the  Russian  peasants  on 
pilgrimage.  Hitherto  I  had  occasionally  met  them  in 
twos  and  threes  on  the  long  ways  of  the  land,  and  of 
course  swarming  everywhere  in  Jerusalem.  Now  I 
saw  them  in  small  bands,  on  the  march.  The  day  was 
rather  windy  and  cold,  one  of  those  peculiar  white  days 

172 


FROM  JERICHO  TO  BETHLEHEM 

that  are  at  the  same  time  glaring  and  sad.  The  country 
into  which  I  was  coming  was  barren ;  looked  almost . 
hostile  in  its  desolation.  One  saw  this  road,  obviously 
an  important  highway,  and  yet  one  could  not  believe 
that  it  led  to  any  center,  to  any  habitations  of  men.  It 
seemed  to  be  winding  into  the  wilderness  where  no 
water  is.  And  into  the  wilderness,  bravely,  with  their 
strange  simplicity  of  courage,  were  marching  the  peo- 
ple of  Holy  Russia,  singing  hymns  in  the  wind,  among 
the  stones,  the  dust,  the  nakedness.  These  voices  go 
straight  to  the  heart.  In  their  timbre  is  the  innocence 
that  dwells  in  the  eyes  of  a  young  child.  But  in  the  eyes 
of  the  child  one  sees  a  touching  faith  and  perfect  con- 
fidence in  this  world.  In  the  voices  of  the  Russian  pil- 
grims one  hears  faith  and  confidence  in  the  world  to 
come,  when  pilgrimage  will  be  over,  and  feet  rest  among 
the  flowers  of  paradise. 

Before  the  Inn  of  the  Good  Samaritan  we  stopped  to 
repose  among  the  pilgrims.  This  humble  and  rough 
place  of  refreshment  stands  quite  alone  near  the  summit 
of  a  pass,  with  hills  behind  it.  It  is  a  long,  one-storied 
building  of  yellow  stone,  with  a  sloping  roof  of  pink 
tiles,  round  windows  with  yellow  shutters  of  wood,  and 
a  great  arched  doorway  leading  into  the  paved  and 
sparsely  furnished  interior.  Before  it  are  long,  wooden 
troughs  at  which  the  horses  feed,  while  the  drivers  drink 
coffee  and  smoke  cigarettes.  It  was  eight  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  and  the  near  hills   were  full  of  delicate 

173 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

shades  of  pink  and  of  yellow.  Far  away  the  lofty  moun- 
tains of  Moab  loomed  through  a  wonder  of  haze.  All 
around  the  pilgrims  were  resting.  Most  of  them  were 
old,  and  some  very  old.  One  man,  immensely  tall  and 
gaunt,  with  bushy  eyebrows,  high  cheek-bones,  small 
gray  eyes,  and  a  flattened  nose  with  wide  nostrils,  had 
an  extraordinary  resemblance  to  the  portraits  of  Tolstoi. 
His  beard  flowed  far  over  his  chest,  on  which  lay  five 
medals.  He  wore  a  high  fur  hat,  top-boots,  and  a  long 
soldier's  coat  drawn  in  at  the  back.  And  he  sat  on  a 
bit  of  rock,  eating  slowly  a  hunch  of  dark  bread,  which 
he  had  drawn  from  a  bundle  and  which  he  cut  with  a 
clasp-knife.  Near  him  were  three  elderly  women,  broad, 
heavily  built,  and  loaded  with  bundles,  and  an  old  man 
whose  face  was  muffled  up  in  shaggy  gray  hair.  The 
members  of  this  group  did  not  speak.  They  sat  to- 
gether, gazing  quietly  at  this  place  —  one  of  the  places 
of  their  holy  dreams  in  their  own  land.  Now  at  last 
they  were  here,  on  the  spot  where  the  man  fell  among 
thieves,  and  was  succored,  and  brought  to  an  inn,  and 
taken  care  of  There  was  something  mystical  in  those 
old  eyes,  which  had  seen  much  of  the  weariness  and  the 
trouble  of  life,  but  which  now  saw  the  land  of  Jesus. 
The  three  women  began  to  sing  with  the  voices  of  chil- 
dren. And  the  old  soldier  forgot  to  eat,  laid  his  gnarled 
hands  on  his  dusty  knees,  and  listened,  moving  his  lips. 
Always  along  the  road  other  pilgrims  came,  toiling  up- 
ward like  Christian  up  the  Hill  of  Difficulty,  bowed  be- 

174 


THE   WILDERNESS  UE   |UDEA 


^r 


% 


\-..'B 


FROM  JERICHO  TO  BETHLEHEM 

neath  the  loads  that  had  been  carried  from  the  interior 
of  Russia,  and  seldom  laid  away  except  on  the  voyage 
over  the  sea,  at  night,  and  during  the  long  stay  in  the 
holy    city.     Presently    before   the    Inn    of   the    Good 
Samaritan  there  was  quite  a  crowd,  and  nearly  all  were 
Russians.     Bits  of  black  bread  were  produced  by  men 
and  women,  and  eaten  slowly,  not  voraciously,  but  with  a 
quiet  relish.     Some  crossed  themselves  repeatedly.     A 
few  prayed.  There  was  not  much  talking.  Many  seemed 
to   be   sunk  in  wide-eyed  dreams.     Many  were  very 
grave,  but  in  their  gravity  there  was  no  bitterness ;  only 
a  sort  of  gentle  and  deep  seriousness  that  was  full  of 
humanity.      Now  and  then  a  few  voices  sang  sweetly 
together.  And  presently,  the  repose  over,  the  black  bread 
eaten,  the  bundles  were  girded  on  again,  the  big  staffs 
were  taken  in  hand,  and  onward  they  slowly  went  once 
more ;  their  minds  surely  full  of  the  thought  of  Jordan, 
their  eyes  set  toward  the  mountains  of  Moab.     When- 
ever I  saw  the  Russian  pilgrims  I  thought  of  that  day 
when  Jesus  took  a  little  child  and  set  him  in  the  midst. 
The  descent  into  the  plain  of  Jericho  is  tremendously 
wild.     From  the  turmoil  of  rocks  one  looks  down,  and 
one  sees  a  green  patch  set  in  a  great  tract  that  is  like 
the  desert,  and  that  stretches  to  the  shore  of  the  Dead 
Sea.      This  patch  is  Jericho.      And  Jericho,  so  often 
abused,  spoken  of  as  a  filthy  and  abandoned  village  de- 
void of  interest,  as  a  collection  of  squalid  hovels,  as  a 
place  to  get  away  from  as  quickly  as  possible,  is  in 

I 


/  / 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

reality  full  of  fascination,  of  a  peculiar  poetry.  Josephus 
has  called  it  the  Earthly  Paradise.  But  that  was  very 
long  ago.  Once  the  patch  of  green  was  only  part  of  a 
great  stretch  of  glorious  fertility  in  the  midst  of  which 
was  a  city  shaded  by  groves  of  palms.  From  Mount 
Quarantana,  not  far  off  in  the  west,  Satan  is  said  to  have 
shown  our  Lord  "all  the  kingdoms  of  the  world,  and 
the  glory  of  them."  And  in  those  days  the  valley  of  the 
Jordan  was  a  highway  for  great  caravans  going  from 
Damascus  to  Arabia.  Now  a  strange  peace,  a  delicious 
lethargy,  has  fallen  upon  this  region.  It  is  full  of  the 
beauty  of  desertion.  Others  may  regret  what  one  well- 
known  writer  has  called  "the  wretchedness  and  ruin" 
of  Jericho.  I  am  unable  to  do  so.  To  me,  coming  down 
upon  it  from  the  savage  route  that  winds  through  the 
country  of  the  anchorites,  liberated  after  many  days  from 
the  perpetual  winds  and  from  the  rain  that  prevailed  in 
Jerusalem,  it  seemed  like  a  little  paradise.  It  lies  be- 
tween eight  and  nine  hundred  feet  below  the  level  of  the 
sea,  at  the  edge  of  one  of  the  strangest,  most  ghastly 
and  abandoned  wildernesses  I  have  ever  seen  —  the  val- 
ley of  the  Jordan,  with  its  slime-pits,  its  hillocks  crowned 
with  sidr-trees, — those  cruel  trees  full  of  thorns  from 
one  of  which  perhaps  Christ's  crown  was  made, —  its 
streaks  and  gashes  of  sickly  white  and  sickly  yellow, 
like  long  and  livid  wounds  made  in  the  shrinking  body 
of  the  earth,  its  orange-colored  sands  melting  into  clay, 
its  lonely  sea  of  death.     Over  all  this  valley  there  broods 

178 


z 

< 

< 


o 

o 

h 
O 

z 
z 


FROM  JERICHO  TO  BETHLEHEM 

a  strange  and  hectic  warmth,  enervating,  no  doubt,  and 
perhaps  hateful  if  one  has  to  endure  it  for  long,  but  de- 
licious— to  me  at  least — for  a  short  time,  after  days 
spent  in  the  midst  of  damp,  and  blown  upon  perpetually 
by  cold  and  gusty  winds. 

All  that  now  remains  of  Jericho  is  a  village  of  tum- 
ble-down houses  occupied  by  a  population  of  Bedouins 
and  negroes,  with  a  (ew  better  habitations  of  stone  with 
red  roofs,  three  or  four  small  hotels,  a  church  of  Holy 
Russia,  a  Russian  hospice,  and  a  serai.  But  this  village 
is  embraced  by  gardens  and  thickets,  and  wild,  luxuri- 
ant vegetation  that  recalled  to  me  memories  of  the 
tropics,  and  of  the  isles  in  the  deep  blue  seas  that  are 
full  of  mystery  and  wonder.  Again  and  again,  as  I 
wandered  alone  in  the  oasis,  where  the  women  in  dim 
purple  and  black,  their  heads  bound  by  red  and  orange 
handkerchiefs,  their  breasts  covered  with  masses  of 
beads  and  amulets,  glide  noiselessly  by  on  naked  feet, 
carrying  between  their  lips  those  wonderful  mauve  roses 
of  Jericho,  I  thought  of  Haiti,  of  villages  under  the  Blue 
Mountains  of  Jamaica,  where  life  seems  always  a  dream, 
at  least  to  the  Western  man. 

If  you  wish  to  savor  Jericho,  to  enter  into  its  dream, 
you  must  escape  from  companions  and  go  alone,  as  I 
did,  for  long  strolls  without  an  aim,  for  slow  saunters 
in  the  warm  noontide  and  at  evening  between  the  hedges 
of  pea-flowers,  the  pepper-trees,  the  oleanders,  the  tall 
bamboos.     The  drowsy  air  that  enfolds  you  seems  to 

15  I  8  I 


THE    HOLY   LAND 

have  a  definite  personality,  to  be  fraught  with  a  definite 
purpose,  the  lulhng  of  all  energetic  desires  to  sleep.  It 
has  caught  strange  perfumes  into  its  net,  captured  from 
those  half-hidden  gardens  of  which  you  catch  glimpses 
over  or  through  the  uneven  and  broken  hedges  of  the 
spina  Christi — gardens  where  the  pink  and  white  and 
mauve  of  the  pea-blossoms  mingle  with  the  rose-colored 
flower  of  the  oleander,  with  the  white  of  the  jasmine, 
with  the  vivid  red  of  the  pomegranate-blossom.  And 
the  oleander  of  Jericho  is  a  tree  with  a  thick  and  twisted 
trunk,  and  the  jasmine,  too,  is  a  tree  beneath  which  you 
can  sit  down  to  dream.  Everywhere  the  bamboo  raises 
its  yellow-green  head.  It  grows  in  masses  almost  as 
dense  as  the  masses  of  thorn-bushes  which,  spreading 
everywhere  through  Jericho,  give  it  that  definite  note  of 
unkemptness  which  reminded  me  of  the  unkempt  luxuri- 
ance—  of  course  on  the  great,  not  the  small  scale  —  of 
the  West  Indian  forests.  An  extraordinary  calm  hangs 
over  the  gardens,  the  half-hidden  huts  of  the  natives, 
the  thickets,  the  groves.  A  voice  singing  among  the 
bamboos  by  a  trickle  of  water,  the  laugh  of  a  negro  child 
who  divides  the  thorns  or  the  jasmine  flowers  with  its 
little  black  hands  to  peep  at  the  passing  stranger,  the 
cry  of  a  boy  to  his  companion  at  the  edge  of  Elisha's 
Fountain  —  these  sounds,  mysteriously  detached,  arise 
in  the  drowsy  sunshine  out  of  the  wide  and  remote  si- 
lence like  delicate  echoes,  and  seem  to  sink  back  into  it 
like  things  governed  by  the  necessity  of  languid  repose. 

182 


At  MAR  SABA,  BETWEEN  JERUSALEM  AND  TIM.   IM-AD   MA 


From  i  pholo^jraph,  Lopyriglit.  \-y  Henry  1  tulli 


FROM  JERICHO  TO  BETHLEHEM 

Life,  as  we  Westerners  think  of  it,  seems  removed  to 
an  immense  distance.  One  can  hardly  beHeve  in  it  any- 
more. The  hashish  of  Jericho  is  at  our  Hps.  A  litde 
more  wandering,  and  it  is  in  our  brains,  and  surely  in 
our  hearts.  At  a  turn  in  the  path,  under  a  mimosa-tree, 
stands  a  slim  girl  with  long  Arab  eyes,  holding  loosely 
a  great  bouquet  of  mauve-pink  roses.  Her  bracelets 
jingle,  shifting  on  her  thin,  brown  arm,  as  she  gives 
them  to  you  with  a  smile.  And  you  remember  the  old 
name  of  Jericho  —  the  place  of  fragrance. 

But  when  the  night  comes,  you  remember  that  it  was 
called  also  the  City  of  the  Moon. 

Its  fascination  increases  as  afternoon  wanes  and  the 
evening  light  takes  the  plain,  the  Dead  Sea,  and  all  the 
mountains:  Quarantana,  the  Mount  of  Temptation  for- 
ever connected  with  Christ;  the  mountains  of  Gilead,  of 
Edom,  Pisgah,  Nebo,  from  which  Moses  beheld  the  land 
of  Canaan ;  the  magical  mountains  of  Moab.  Then  in- 
deed romance  is  released  from  its  secret  abiding-place 
and  God  is  felt  in  nature. 

One  evening  toward  sunset  I  left  my  little  hotel  and 
strolled  out  into  the  road  that  bordered  the  waste.  Be- 
fore me  was  a  depression  full  of  scattered  thorn-bushes. 
To  the  left  the  road  wound  on  toward  the  village.  I 
followed  it,  walking  slowly.  A  Bedouin,  wearing  a  rose- 
colored  turban,  passed  me.  Under  a  thorn-tree  a  white 
dog  was  lying  asleep.  I  met  two  Greek  priests,  with 
auburn  hair  floating  over  their   shoulders,  sauntering 

185 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

near  the  church,  which  is  surrounded  by  cypresses,  and 
has  a  quantity  of  young,  sharply  green  trees  and  shrubs 
in  front  of  it.  A  httle  farther  on  I  came  upon  a  group 
of  women  in  black,  with  some  small  children,  chattering 
and  laughing  gaily.  Just  before  sunset  is  the  fashion- 
able hour  for  the  promenade  in  Jericho.  From  the 
pleasant  garden  of  the  Jordan  Hotel,  whose  former  pro- 
prietor was  murdered  while  riding  alone  from  Jericho  to 
Jerusalem,  came  the  dry  sound  of  thrown  dice.  I  looked, 
and  under  an  arbor  I  saw  a  priest  of  the  Latins  playing 
backgammon  with  a  young  Syrian.  The  air  was  balmy 
and  full  of  balsamic  odors.  In  the  village,  among  the 
one-storied,  whitewashed  or  earth-colored  houses,  with 
slightly  sloping  roofs  made  of  dried  earth  laid  on  sticks, 
there  was  quite  a  stir  —  in  this  home  of  all  the  lan- 
guors. Goats  were  pattering  homeward,  stirring  up 
the  dust.  Arabs  were  talking  and  laughing  together 
round  a  cane  arbor  under  which  was  a  coffee-table. 
Donkeys  were  being  unloaded  and  sacks  flung  aside. 
Boys  were  playing  some  mysterious  game,  squatting  on 
their  haunches  in  the  dust.  Before  the  serai  some  camels 
were  protesting  as  they  were  forced  to  lie  down.  And 
the  light  of  evening  that  fell  upon  Jericho,  as  the  sun 
declined  toward  the  mountains  of  Judea,  made  every 
object  touching  and  beautiful,  seemed  even  to  beautify 
sounds. 

As   I   went  on   through    the   village,  going    toward 
Elisha's  Fountain,  which  is  perhaps  a  mile  away  from 

i86 


FROM  JERICHO  TO  BETHLEHEM 

the  houses,  I  felt  more  strongly  than  ever  before  the 
peculiar  charm  of  an  oasis,  which  is  the  essential  charm 
of  Jericho.  For  now  the  great  Mountain  of  Temptation, 
with  its  beetling  precipices,  and  terrific  masses  of  rock, 
among  which  is  perched  a  white  monastery,  began  to 
assume  an  iron  aspect  that  is  specially  characteristic  of. 
heights  that  are  lifted  above  the  sands.  And  all  the 
hills  near  it,  with  their  rounded  tops  like  huge  towers, 
their  cruel  ravines,  their  treeless  flanks,  looked  as  if  for 
centuries  those  fires  which  congregate  among  the  crested 
dunes  had  beaten  pitilessly  upon  them.  And  when  I 
gained  the  top  of  a  small  mound  I  saw  that  this  king- 
dom of  mauve  roses,  of  mighty  bananas,  of  bamboo 
forests,  great  oleanders,  plane-trees,  poplars,  date-palms, 
cypresses,  luxuriant  vines,  and  scarlet  and  white  flow- 
ers, with  its  limpid  waters,  its  sunbirds,  its  laughing  and 
dreaming  brown  people,  was  only  a  little  kingdom  on 
the  frontiers  of  desolation.  In  whatever  direction  I 
looked  the  delicious  green  died  away  into  the  terrible 
pallors  of  a  waterless  world. 

I  sat  for  a  while  at  the  edge  of  Elisha's  Fountain, 
which  now  looks  like  a  neatly  constructed  swimming- 
bath.  It  is  to  this  spring  that  the  gardens  of  Jericho 
owe  their  luxuriance.  The  men  of  Jericho  said  to  the 
Prophet,  "The  situation  of  this  city  is  pleasant  .  .  .  but 
the  water  is  naught,  and  the  ground  barren."  And 
Elisha  cast  the  contents  of  a  new  cruse  of  salt  into  the 
spring,  "So  the  waters  were  healed  unto  this  day." 

187 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

Limpid  and  cool  they  shone  at  my  feet  in  the  last  rays 
of  the  sun.  But  I  could  look  only  at  the  mountains,  at 
the  heights  of  Judea,  very  clear,  in  color  now  a  soft  blue, 
with  some  gashes  of  white,  some  notes  of  brown — and 
then  at  the  mountains  of  Moab. 

The  mountains  of  Moab  are  the  wonder  and  the  glory 
of  this  land.  And  surely  among  all  the  ranges  of  the 
world  they  must  stand  out  forever  in  the  memory  of  him 
who  has  looked  upon  them.  Their  beauty  is  ineffable, 
and  tradition  seems  to  have  given  to  that  beauty  a  sort 
of  consecration.  From  a  sanctuary  of  Moab  Moses 
gazed  upon  the  Promised  Land,  and  there  he  died  and 
was  buried.  Before  his  death  in  Moab  he  made  the 
great  Covenant  with  the  children  of  Israel,  when  God 
established  them  "for  a  people  unto  himself."  Whereas 
the  other  ranges  of  mountains  that  guard  the  valley  of 
the  Jordan  and  the  Dead  Sea  are  stern  and  terrible, 
cruel  in  their  fierce  nakedness,  the  mountains  of  Moab 
seem  always  to  hold  themselves  apart  in  a  mood  of  ex- 
quisite reserve.  Always  a  kind  of  lovely  veil  seems 
floating  before  them,  through  which,  though  they  are 
often  seen  distinctly,  they  present  themselves  with  a 
species  of  noble  restraint,  suggestive  of  a  strange  purity 
and  dignity  which  may  rightly  be  worshiped,  but  which 
must  never  be  too  nearly  approached.  And  yet  with 
this  austerity  there  is  blended  a  romance  which  is  poi- 
gnant. No  other  mountains  are  romantic  as  are  the  cor- 
rugated mountains  of  Moab.     No  other  mystery  is  akin 

i88 


< 

O 
D 

(X 

O 

CO 

Qi 

Cd 
C 


X 


FROM  JERICHO  TO  BETHLEHEM 

to  their  mystery,  as  they  watch  over  the  Dead  Sea  at 
the  frontiers  of  the  land  to  which  "He  led  them  forth." 
And  as  behind  the  blue  hills  of  Judea  the  sun  goes  down, 
and  the  last  rays  fade  from  the  waters  of  Elisha's  Foun- 
tain, and  the  green  cloud  of  the  tangled  oasis  darkens 
into  a  somber  hue,  in  which  gray  and  brown  are  min- 
gled with  black,  in  which  the  bright  hues  of  the  flowers 
are  swallowed  up,  and  the  cypresses  come  to  their  own, 
the  mountains  of  Moab  seem  to  retire,  folding  softly 
their  veil  about  them,  into  some  region  unknown  to  man, 
beyond  our  voices  and  the  wandering  of  our  feet,  but  to 
which  our  deepest  longings  draw  mystically  near. 

In  going  from  Jericho  to  the  shore  of  the  Dead  Sea  one 
passes  across  the  waste,  and  travelers  are  escorted 
by  a  Bedouin  guard  fully  armed.  Ours  was  mounted 
upon  a  beautiful  chestnut  horse,  and  galloped  in  ad- 
vance of  us.  The  fertility  of  Jericho  was  swiftly  left 
behind,  and  we  were  lost  in  a  land  of  desolation  that 
was  terrible  —  a  land  that  itself  seemed  utterly  lost  and 
forgotten  by  God.  The  sun  shone  brilliantly  that  day, 
though  banks  of  cloud  lay  above  the  ranges  of  moun- 
tains. What  must  this  region  be  like  without  the  sun  ? 
Scattered  over  the  waste  are  many  white  and  ghastly 
hummocks,  which  look  like  manifestations  of  disease,  as 
if  the  earth  were  sore  afflicted  and  needed  a  healing  hand. 
But  this  hand  is  not  laid  upon  it.  A  white  monastery, 
inhabited  by  monks  of  the  Greek  Church,  stands 
up  like  a  specter,  the  only  habitation.      Near  the  shore 

191 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

of  the  sea,  which  shelves  a  very  Httle,  is  some  scrub. 
In  the  distance  on  our  left  the  lower  spurs  of  the  hills 
discovered  an  extraordinary  turmoil  of  pallors :  grievous 
grays,  yellows,  pinky  whites,  sickly  browns  and  leaden 
hues,  and  indescribable  tints  suggestive  of  suffering  and 
horror.  Have  you  ever  seen  the  faces  of  a  crowd  struck 
suddenly  to  panic  in  the  glare  of  a  strong  light?  So  looks 
this  land  —  stricken,  and  even  sinful,  but  wonderful. 
And  always  there  are  the  mountains  of  Moab,  romantic 
and  almost  savagely  pure,  ranged  peak  on  peak  behind 
their  delicate  veil,  brooding  now  above  the  desolate 
waters  that  seem  abandoned  like  the  earth. 

By  the  shore  of  the  sea  we  found  a  wattled  hut  with 
a  wild-looking  Bedouin  outside  it.  And  here  our  guard 
left  us,  I  suppose.  For  I  did  not  see  him  —  and  I 
wanted  to  see  him — on  the  further  journey  to  Jordan. 
I  walked  for  a  little  while  by  the  sea.  It  was  curled  by 
tiny  waves.  The  near  water  was  pale  green,  the  distant 
water  dark  green.  On  the  pebbly  beach  a  lot  of  drift- 
wood was  lying.  There  was  some  orange-colored  sand. 
Not  a  boat  was  visible.  There  was  no  sign  of  life  any- 
where. I  saw  no  birds.  I  compared  this  sea  with 
Galilee.  Galilee  looks  as  if  it  lay  under  a  hand  lifted  in 
blessing,  the  Dead  Sea  under  a  hand  lifted  in  impreca- 
tion. One  would  fear  to  set  sail  upon  it — even  to 
voyage  to  the  precipices  of  Moab,  to  discover  the  great 
secret. 

When  the  waste  took  us  again  I  was  presently  al- 
most startled  to  see  a  living  thing  moving  in  the  dis- 

T  q2 


MONASTERY  OF  ST.  GEORGE  JN  THE   WADI- EL-KET.T, 
DESERT  bP'JUDEA 


FROM  JERICHO  TO  BETHLEHEM 

tance.  It  was  a  camel,  quite  alone,  going  slowly  toward 
the  Dead  Sea,  as  if  it  had  been  driven,  like  the  scape- 
goat, into  the  wilderness  bearing  a  burden  of  evil.  As 
I  watched  it,  it  turned  its  head  toward  us,  changed  its 
direction,  quickened  its  pace,  and  began  to  follow  us. 
At  the  same  moment  my  Arab  coachman  made  a  furious 
assault  with  the  whip  on  his  three  horses,  which  broke 
into  a  gallop.  My  companion,  a  Syrian,  spoke  to  him 
in  Arabic,  received  a  reply,  and  looked  very  grave. 
"What  is  the  matter?"  I  asked.  He  told  me  that  the 
camel  which  was  following  us  was  mad,  and  that  our 
coachman  had  been  warned  of  its  presence  in  the  wilder- 
ness by  the  Bedouin  at  the  Dead  Sea.  As  we  galloped 
on,  swaying  from  side  to  side,  and  often  looking  back 
at  the  beast,  which  steadily,  though  at  a  considerable 
distance,  came  after  us,  my  friend  regretted  that  we  were 
not  armed,  and  said  that  if  we  were  overtaken  we  should 
be  in  a  serious  difficulty.  It  was  then  I  looked  for  our 
Bedouin  guard  and  did  not  find  him.  Fortunately  his 
absence  was  not  of  consequence  to  us,  for  the  maniac  in 
our  tracks  was  evidently  too  tired  to  come  up  with  us, 
and  we  reached  the  Jordan  in  safety.  Once  there  we 
were  among  trees  and,  even  if  we  had  still  been  pur- 
sued, could  very  easily  have  got  away.  Our  predica- 
ment might  have  been  disagreeable  and  even  very 
dangerous,  for  a  mad  camel,  once  its  attention  is  fastened 
on  any  moving  object,  will  generally  pursue  it  untiringly 
till  it  is  overtaken.     I  have  known  an  instance  when  one 

195 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

followed  an  acquaintance  of  mine,  who  was  mounted  on 
a  fine  Arab  horse,  and  overtook  him  after  a  pursuit  that 
had  lasted  more  than  three  hours.  Luckily  he  was 
armed  with  a  gun,  and  when  he  was  forced  to  turn  to 
bay  disabled  the  brute. 

We  came  to  Jordan  at  the  spot  where  the  Russian 
pilgrims  bathe,  but  not  one  was  there  that  day,  and  the 
muddy  river  flowed  undisturbed  at  the  foot  of  the  dense 
thickets  of  trees,  willows,  oaks,  poplars,  and  tamarisks, 
that  crowd  to  its  edge  and  in  many  places  lean  over  its 
waters  as  if  desiring  baptism.  At  the  ford,  where  the 
pilgrims  enter  the  river,  and  where  it  is  supposed  that 
Christ  was  baptized,  there  is  a  sandy  shore,  and  here  a 
wooden  shed  has  been  erected,  and  two  guards  have 
been  placed.  The  river  makes  a  curve  here,  and  van- 
ishes to  right  and  left  of  you  as  you  face  it.  Wishing 
to  follow  its  course,  I  entered  a  large,  flat-bottomed  boat, 
and  was  rowed  out  by  an  Arab  into  the  current.  Al- 
most as  soon  as  we  had  passed  the  bend  we  were  in 
absolute  solitude  on  the  brown  water.  The  river  is  not 
very  broad,  not  striking,  but  the  trees,  and  brambles, 
and  rank  undergrowth  were  full  of  singing  birds,  the 
bright  sunshine  fell  on  the  willows,  the  air  was  cool  and 
light,  the  boatman  sang  as  he  plied  his  primitive  oars. 
Soon  we  came  to  low  cliffs,  and  beyond  the  trees  saw 
a  maze  of  low  desert  hills,  brown,  pink,  white,  gray, 
pale  yellow.  And  I  made  my  Arab  lie  on  his  oars,  and 
for  a  long  while  I   stayed    there   in  a  silence  broken 

196 


ruiiVa  i.hol.jgiat.h.  copyrL.-lu,  L.y  r„dcrwuu.i  &  li.derwood 


THE  MOUNT  OF  TEMPTATION 


FROM  JERICHO  TO  BETHLEHEM 

only  by  the  rapture  of  the  birds  at  the  edge  of  the  sacred 
stream.  Tradition  held  me  captive.  For  I  was  gazing 
at  the  place  from  which  Elijah  is  said  to  have  been 
caught  up  by  a  whirlwind  into  heaven.  Under  the  bank 
opposite  to  me  there  was  a  delicious,  shadowy  nook  that 
reminded  me  of  the  Thames,  of  punts,  and  of  English 
girls  in  white  dresses.  But  those  hills  —  how  they 
spoke  to  me  of  the  East!  And  Elijah  had  dwelt  among 
them! 

The  boatman  began  his  song  once  more.  The  chariot 
and  the  horses  of  fire  vanished.  I  gave  the  signal.  The 
boat  swung  round,  and  we  went  back  slowly  against 
the  stream  to  the  sandy  place  by  the  ford. 

To  the  south  of  Jerusalem,  and  between  five  and  six 
miles  distant  from  it,  Bethlehem  lies  on  a  limestone  hill, 
in  which  are  cut  terraces  planted  with  splendid  olive- 
trees,  fig-  and  other  fruit-trees  and  vines.  From  a  dis- 
tance the  gray  town  looks  important  and  prosperous. 
It  has  a  background  of  bare  hills.  It  lies  in  a  stony 
country.  From  it  can  be  seen  far  away  the  mountains 
of  Moab.  On  the  highroad  between  it  and  Jerusalem 
at  Easter-time  there  is  an  ever-flowing  stream  of  pil- 
grims, and  the  narrow  streets  near  the  famous  old  church 
founded  by  Constantine  the  Great's  mother,  the  Em- 
press Helena,  are  thronged  by  Russians  and  travelers 
of  all  nations.  As  I  joined  this  crowd,  and  threaded 
my  way  between  the  houses  strongly  built  of  stone,  with 
thick  walls  and  ample  doorways,  and  the  dome-shaped 

199 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

roofs  of  stone  for  the  construction  of  which  the  builders 
of  Bethlehem  are  famous  all  over  Palestine,  I  looked 
with  interest  at  the  natives  of  our  Lord's  birthplace. 

In  the  Holy  Land  one  passes  from  one  little  world  to 
another  with  a  swiftness  that  is  almost  bewildering.  At 
one  moment  the  world  is  Circassian,  at  another  Jewish, 
at  another  Italian  or  German,  Mohammedan  or  Druse. 
And  even  the  native  populations  of  the  different  towns 
in  which  Christianity  prevails  differ  markedly  from  one 
another.  The  people  of  Bethlehem  are  distinguished 
by  ability,  energy,  enterprise,  and  adaptability,  and,  I 
thought,  looked  a  powerful  and  vigorous  lot,  fearless  and 
self-reliant  and  perhaps  almost  too  independent.  Many 
of  them  emigrate,  for  they  have  no  fear  of  travel  and 
make  excellent  colonists.  It  is  possible  to  come  upon 
men  of  Bethlehem  in  eastern  Africa  and  even  in  Haiti. 
Now  for  the  first  time  I  saw  the  remarkable  head-dresses 
for  which  the  married  women  of  Bethlehem  are  famous. 
They  are  large  and  entirely  conceal  the  hair.  I  was 
told  that  the  foundation  is  a  fez,  stiffened  and  covered 
with  cotton.  Chains  of  silver  on  which  are  strung  rows 
of  silver  coins  ornament  the  front,  and  a  great  white  veil 
made  of  cotton  gives  the  finishing  touch.  Strongly 
built  and  active,  the  matrons  of  Bethlehem  look  very 
imposing  as  they  go  about  their  affairs,  and  I  should 
scarcely  think  they  live  in  great  subjection  to  their  hus- 
bands. That  they  make  alarming  mothers-in-law  I  can 
well  believe.     There  is  a  proverb  in  Palestine,  "Were 

200 


IHE  DEAD  SEA  AND  THE  MOUNTAINS  OF  MOAfi' 


FROM  JERICHO  TO  BETHLEHEM 

the  mother-in-law  to  love  her  daughter-in-law,  dogs 
would  go  into  paradise." 

The  Church  of  the  Holy  Nativity  is  entered  through 
a  doorway  so  small  that  I  had  to  bend  my  head  in  order 
to  pass  through  it.  It  is  roofed  with  wood  cut  from  the 
cedars  of  Lebanon,  has  double  rows  of  yellow  pillars, 
and  is  very  large  and  very  simple,  and  fine  in  its  sim- 
plicity. Here  and  there  I  came  upon  a  Turkish  soldier 
standing  patiently,  gun  in  hand,  to  keep  Christian  dogs 
in  order.  For  in  this  church,  built  on  the  spot  where 
tradition  places  the  birth  of  Christ,  there  is  often  brawl- 
ing and  fighting  as  in  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher. 
Joint  ownership  is  here,  as  in  Jerusalem,  the  main  cause 
of  all  the  trouble.  The  church  with  its  holy  place  be- 
longs to  the  Latins,  the  Greeks,  and  the  Armenians,  and 
the  three  religions,  needless  to  say,  do  not  dwell  to- 
gether in  peace.  When  I  was  in  Bethlehem  I  saw  evi- 
dence of  the  rights  of  the  Armenians,  for  when  I  made 
my  way  to  the  cavern  in  which  it  is  believed  that  our 
Saviour  was  born,  I  found  it  occupied  by  Armenian 
priests  who  were  holding  an  elaborate  service. 

To  reach  this  sacred  cavern,  round  and  over  which 
the  great  church  has  been  built,  you  pass  through  a 
screen  into  a  rather  gorgeous  chapel  belonging  to  the 
Greeks,  gay  with  sacred  pictures,  and  glittering  with 
gold  and  silver  and  hanging  lamps,  roofed  with  cedar,  and 
paved  with  marble,  and  come  to  two  flights  of  marble 
steps  forming  a  half-moon.     These  steps  are  rather 

203 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

narrow  and  lead  down  into  the  cavern,  which  is  in  the 
living  rock.  When  I  reached  them  I  heard  a  sound  of 
chanting  in  a  man's  deep  voice.  I  paused,  and  below 
me,  in  a  dimness  revealed  by  the  lighted  candles  held 
by  Russian  pilgrims  standing  or  sitting  upon  the  steps, 
I  saw  two  Armenian  priests,  dressed  in  pink,  white,  red, 
and  gold  vestments,  with  long  hair  and  heavy  beards. 
They  also  held  candles  and  books,  and  were  loudly 
worshiping  before  a  silver  star.  Beside  them,  impas- 
sive, handsome,  gun  in  hand,  fez  on  head,  stood  an  im- 
mensely tall  Turkish  soldier,  with  half-shut  eyes,  weary 
no  doubt  with  the  long  sentry  duty  which  in  Palestine 
is  the  Turkish  soldier's  lot  during  Holy  Week  and  at 
Easter.  The  loud  voices  of  the  priests  ceased,  and  I 
heard  boys  singing.  Then  again  the  priests  raised  their 
somber  chants,  one  answering  the  other.  I  descended 
softly  between  the  Russians,  who,  absorbed,  as  they  al- 
ways are,  did  not  glance  at  me,  and  I,  too,  stood  before 
the  star.  It  is  inlaid  in  marble,  is  of  silver,  and  is  bor- 
dered by  the  solemn  inscription,  "  Hie  de  Virgine  Maria 
Jesus  Christus  natus  est."  The  place  where  it  lies  is 
called  the  Recess  of  the  Nativity,  and  the  small  space 
before  it,  where  people  were  kneeling,  is  called  the 
Chapel  of  the  Manger.  The  whole  cavern  is  named  the 
Chapel  of  the  Nativity.  Here  it  is  believed  that  the 
Magi  came  with  their  offerings,  and  their  altar  is  here. 
Lamps  belonging  to  the  Latins,  Greeks,  and  Armenians 
burn  here  night  and  day  as  year  follows  after  year.     The 

204 


CHURCi^  OF  THE  NATIVITY,  BETHLEHEM' 


.ofwooii  &  I'ltderwLUxl 


FROM  JERICHO  TO  BETHLEHEM 

low  roof  is  draped,  and  parts  of  the  walls  are  draped  in 
blue  and  silver,  and  there  is  a  casing  of  marble  brought 
from  Italy.     The  service  was  long  and  monotonous,  but 
I  did  not  regret  it.     The  priests'  and  the  boys'  voices 
sounded  strange  and  almost  unearthly  in  the  heart  of 
this  rock  consecrated  by  the  simple  faith  of  thousands. 
Under  the  gold  and  silver  lamps  the  barbaric  vestments 
shone  and  gleamed  as  the  priests  moved  to  and  fro, 
bowed,  kneeled,  or  stood  upright.     The  Turkish  soldier, 
who  was  on  a  tiny  platform  of  wood,  stared  with  his 
heavy  eyes  at  the  star.     Crouched  on  the  rows  of  steps, 
lit  by  their  flickering  candles,  the  Russian  pilgrims  wept, 
crossed  themselves,  moved  their  old  lips  in  the  prayers 
of  their  church,  and  perhaps  also  in  prayers  that  were 
spontaneously  born  at  this  supreme  moment  in  their 
peasant  lives  in  their  own  hearts.     And  the  legend  by 
the  star  held  the  eyes  and  the  soul:   "Hie  de  Virgine 
Maria  Jesus  Christus  natus  est." 

At  such  moments  man  seems  to  hold  within  him  an 
imperative  need  to  accept  and  believe.  Only  when  the 
voices  died  away,  when  the  priests  and  the  pilgrims 
were  gone,  when  I  ascended  once  more  into  the  nave 
of  the  great  church,  which  is  said  to  be  the  oldest  nave 
in  Christendom,  was  I  able  to  remember  that  probably 
Christ  was  not  born  in  a  cave  of  the  rock.  As  to  the 
visit  and  adoration  of  the  Magi,  St.  Matthew  wrote  of 
it,  "And  when  they"  —  the  Magi  —  "were  come  into 
the  house,   they  saw  the  young  child  with  Mary  his 

207 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

mother,  and  fell  down,  and  worshipped  him."  The  tra- 
dition concerning  the  cave  of  the  silver  star  is  therefore 
probably  erroneous.  Be  it  so.  But  faith  and  worship 
have  made  the  Chapel  of  the  Nativity  in  Bethlehem  for- 
ever sacred.  For  there  thousands  have  seen  the  star 
in  the  East  and,  having  seen,  have  gone  to  their  own 
homes,  carrying  with  them  a  belief  made  suddenly  more 
vital,  more  serene,  made  bright  as  the  lamps  that 
ceaselessly  burn  above  those  solemn  words  in  the  mar- 
ble beneath  the  impending  rock:  "  Hie  de  Virgine  Maria 
Jesus  Christus  natus  est." 


208 


JERUSALEM 


i-% 


THli    WATT  TMH-PT  ACf-'    HF    XHF    IFW';     IFRH'^Ar.EM 


VI 

JERUSALEM 

DAMASCUS  and  Jerusalem  —  silken  garment 
and  hair  shirt!  The  one,  a  radiant  city  of 
dream  held  in  the  heart  of  the  woods,  sank 
away  from  me  into  a  romantic  mystery  of  blue ;  the 
other,  an  austere  city  of  reality,  rose  before  me  on  its 
stony  and  sterile  hills,  bleak,  almost  forbidding,  under  a 
black  sky,  wind-swept,  with  a  scud  of  rain  coming  up 
to  it  from  the  Mount  of  Olives,  where  the  Russian  tower 
lifted  itself  grimly  toward  the  traveling  clouds.  Like 
gashes  made  in  the  earth  by  some  weapon  of  a  giant, 
the  ravines  showed  themselves  below  it.  About  it  the 
inhospitable,  waterless  country  rolled  away  toward  the 
Dead  Sea,  toward  Jaffa  and  the  Mediterranean,  toward 
the  mountains  of  Galilee.  Gone  were  the  prairies  cov- 
ered with  flowers,  gone  were  the  golden  plains,  the 
thickets  of  oaks,  the  languorous,  grassy  slopes,  the  silver, 
murmuring  streams.  This  was  a  world  of  windy  bare- 
ness, of  almost  cruel  sterility,  in  summer  surely  of  parch- 
ing heat. 

213 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

I  rode  into  Jerusalem  by  the  Nablus  route,  through 
the  new  town  without  the  walls,  past  the  Anglican 
bishop's  palace  and  school-house,  leaving  on  my  right 
a  modern  quarter  inhabited  by  Jews.  Descending  a 
hill  into  a  slimy  street  in  which  more  Jews,  clad  in  plush 
and  velvet  coats  of  gaudy  colors  and  wearing  velvet 
hats  bordered  with  fur,  were  picking  their  way  through 
thick  mud  among  puddles  of  yellowish  rain-water,  I 
drew  up  before  a  German  hotel.  I  had  reached  my 
journey's  end:   I  was  in  the  Holy  City. 

That  first  day  Jerusalem  almost  repelled  me ;  but  I 
did  not  know  it.  Later  I  was  taken  captive  by  the  spell 
of  its  amazing  complexity.  Its  power  to  interest  almost 
overwhelmed  me.  Jerusalem  is  interesting  as  no  other 
city  is  interesting,  and  that  quality  of  it  increases  its 
grip  upon  you  day  by  day,  waking  up  the  intellect,  stir- 
ring the  faculties  to  an  almost  untiring  activity  —  an 
activity  that  perhaps  becomes  feverish  at  the  feverish 
time  of  Easter.  In  Jerusalem  surely  the  most  sleepy 
mind  must  wake,  the  most  phlegmatic  temperament  be 
whipped  to  a  strong  alertness.  Conflict  seems  in  the 
air,  a  turmoil  proceeding  rather  from  the  souls  than  from 
the  bodies  of  men.  By  their  great  wall  the  Jews  wail 
day  after  day.  They  weep  for  vanished  power,  vanished 
glory,  a  possession  taken  from  them.  But  there  is  much 
else  to  weep  for  in  the  city  whose  name  means  founda- 
tion or  habitation  of  peace,  where  Moslems  keep  the 
gate  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher,  and  Turkish  soldiers  with 

214 


JERUSALEM 

loaded  muskets  hold  in  check  the  furious  passions  of 
Christians. 

For  thirty-eight  centuries  Jerusalem  has  been  famous 
in  history.  On  the  day  of  my  arrival  I  felt  as  if  I  were 
in  the  suburb  of  some  strange,  pale,  and  shabby  modern 
town.  In  fact,  almost  the  whole  of  antique  Jerusalem 
lies  buried  beneath  your  feet  as  you  walk  through  the 
narrow  ways,  under  the  arches  of  stone,  down  the  slip- 
pery flights  of  steps,  and  among  the  shadows  of  the 
bazaars.  Nevertheless,  when  I  saw  the  towering  walls 
of  Solyman  the  Magnificent,  when  I  passed  within  their 
circle  and  found  myself  in  the  crowded  Christian  and 
David  streets,  when  I  stood  in  the  court  of  the  Church 
of  the  Holy  Sepulcher  among  the  adoring  pilgrims  and 
those  who  profit  by  their  religious  ecstasies,  when  I 
wandered  through  the  immense  Haram  esh-Sherif,  or 
inclosure  of  the  Temple,  when  I  sat  within  the  brilliant 
mystery  that  is  the  Dome  of  the  Rock,  when  I  stood 
among  the  Jews  by  the  huge  wall  of  their  wailing-place, 
I  felt  as  it  were  a  breathing  of  hoary  age  about  me. 
And  I  saw  courses  of  stone  on  which  perhaps  the  eyes 
of  Solomon  once  looked,  and  beneath  arches  of  living 
rock  I  trod,  perhaps,  almost  in  the  footsteps  of  David. 

Upon  Mount  Scopus  an  Englishman  has  built  him- 
self a  house.  One  windy  day  of  April  I  paused  not  far 
from  it  and  looked  across  the  Valley  of  the  Kedron  to 
the  Holy  City.  It  was  pale  under  the  stormy  sky,  spread 
out  on  its  limestone  ridge,  with  its  cruel  hills  about  it. 

215 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

The  scattered  groves  of  its  olives  scarcely  mitigated  the 
austerity  of  its  aspect  —  an  austerity  due  much  more  to 
its  peculiarly  barren  surroundings  than  to  the  grouping 
of  its  buildings,  their  colors,  or  their  forms.  The  city 
looked  large, —  indeed,  like  an  important  capital, —  with 
its  masses  of  gray  and  sand-yellow  houses,  crowned 
with  sloping  roofs  of  a  dim  red  shading  sometimes  into 
pink,  with  its  cupolas  and  minarets,  its  church  towers, 
its  severe  but  imposing  hospices,  its  domes  of  the  Rock, 
of  El-Aksa,  and  of  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher. 
The  white  tower  and  the  small  white  dome  of  the  new 
German  church  stood  out,  and  on  Mount  Zion  rose  the 
very  imposing,  almost  flamboyant  German  Catholic 
church.  And  as  in  Nazareth  the  Russian  hospice  was 
frankly  dominating,  so  in  Jerusalem  now  France  as- 
serted herself,  her  gigantic  Hospice  of  Notre  Dame,  with 
its  towers  and  spreading  wings,  making  from  here  the 
buildings  set  up  for  the  pilgrims  of  other  nations  seem 
of  little  or  no  importance.  The  city  wall  was  plainly 
marked  above  the  edge  of  the  valley.  Far  off  were  the 
shadowy  mountains  of  Judea. 

There  came  a  rift  in  the  clouds.  A  pale  sunshine  fell 
upon  the  city,  giving  it  for  a  moment  a  changed  look  of 
almost  delicate  brilliance.  Then  the  clouds  closed  once 
more  —  clouds  as  lead-colored  as  that  dome  shielding 
the  Holy  Sepulcher,  sunk  in  the  heart  of  Jerusalem,  so 
poor  from  here,  so  almost  mean  compared  with  the 
great  Dome  of  the  Rock,  yet  magnetic,  attracting  the 

2  l6 


THE  POOL  OF  HEZEKIAH,  JERUSALEM 


JERUSALEM 

eyes  and  the  mind.  It  seemed  to  crouch,  as  if  it  would 
get  close  to  a  precious  thing  —  to  that  house  of  marble 
beneath  it  where,  so  thousands  upon  thousands  believe, 
the  body  of  Christ  was  laid  in  the  rock-hewn  tomb.  It 
looked  like  a  dome  of  tender  protection,  and  I  watched 
it  till  the  rest  of  the  city  seemed  blotted  out,  and  I  saw 
only  that  roof  of  lead  beneath  the  leaden  sky. 

The  two  centers  of  interest  in  Jerusalem  are  the 
Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher  and  the  Dome  of  the 
Rock  within  the  inclosure  of  the  Haram  esh-Sherif; 
one  the  most  sacred  place  in  Palestine  for  all  Christians, 
the  other  the  most  sacred  place  in  Palestine  for  all  Mos- 
lems. The  latter  is  incomparably  the  most  beautiful 
and  most  beautifully  placed  building  in  Jerusalem. 

The  Mohammedans  of  old  days,  like  the  ancient 
Greeks,  knew  how  greatly  the  value  of  a  noble  or 
lovely  mosque  or  temple  is  enhanced  by  placing  it  prop- 
erly. The  Greeks  chose  the  positions  of  their  temples 
with  sheer  genius.  The  Mohammedans,  caring  less 
for  dominant  heights,  had  a  passion  for  great  spaces. 
Perhaps  they  drew  this  from  the  desert. 

Detached  beauty  rising  out  of  the  bosom  of  calm  — 
this  seems  to  have  been  the  ideal  of  the  Mohammedans 
who  created  the  great  mosques  of  the  Eastern  world. 
And  there  is  a  magical  calm  in  the  huge  Haram  in- 
closure. 

One  morning,  escaping  out  of  the  turmoil  of  Jewish 
and  Christian  Jerusalem,  I  entered  in  by  the  St.  Ste- 

219 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

phen's  Gate,  passed  up  the  slightly  ascending  pathway 
of  stone  to  the  steps  and  the  stone  platform,  under  the 
graceful  arch,  with  its  slight  columns,  between  the  stone 
buildings  with  cupolas  which  join  the  walls  on  either  hand, 
and  stood  still  for  a  moment  near  the  three  large  maize- 
trees  in  full  leaf  which  threw  a  patch  of  shade  almost  to 
my  feet.  The  city  lay  on  my  right.  Close  to  me  were 
the  backs  of  the  yellow  houses  built  on  the  site  where 
the  Levites  once  lived.  A  shrill  and  gay  sound  of 
Turkish  military  music  came  to  me  from  beyond  these 
dwellings.  When  it  had  died  away,  I  went  on  into  the 
great  inner  court,  with  the  white  pavement,  and  sat  down 
on  a  block  of  stone. 

The  inclosure  was  almost  empty.  In  the  sunlit  dis- 
tance a  small  band  of  students  sauntered  slowly  in  the 
direction  of  the  Golden  Gate;  an  old  pilgrim  in  a  long, 
brown  garment  bent  over  a  fountain ;  two  Arabs,  squat- 
ting by  the  wrinkled  trunk  of  an  oliv^e-tree,  stared 
gravely  before  them.  No  longer  did  Turkish  trumpets 
disturb  the  marvelous  peace  that  reigns  in  the  Haram. 
I  drank  it  in  for  a  moment,  and  then  I  looked. 

Not  far  from  me  I  saw  a  great  building  of  marble  and 
porcelain,  of  pearl-colored,  pale  yellow,  gray,  and  white 
marble,  of  porcelain  purple,  turquoise  blue,  bright  yel- 
low, and  deep  green.  In  shape  it  was  octagonal,  each 
of  the  sides  measuring  sixty-seven  feet;  and  it  was 
crowned  by  a  mighty  dome,  beneath  which  were  pointed 
windows  filled  with  glass  like  jewels.    Porches  of  marble 

220 


JERUSALEM 

and  porcelain  projected  from  it.  Near  it  stood  a  small 
marvel  of  loveliness  made  of  the  same  precious  mate- 
rials—the little  Dome  of  the  Chain,  or,  as  a  Moham- 
medan called  it  to  me,  "the  Mother  of  the  Mosque." 
This  delicate  and  almost  ethereal  creation,  with  its  two 
rows  of  columns,  its  small  dome  and  crescent,  is  a  kiosk, 
the  home  of  the  airs,  the  sunbeams,  and  the  happy 
shadows.  It  produced  upon  me  the  effect  of  a  sweet 
harmony.  Yet  when  one  examines  it  carefully,  one 
finds  within  it  traces  of  various  architectures,  Hebrew 
and  Byzantine,  Greek  and  Roman.  God,  the  Moslems 
say,  once  stretched  a  chain  across  the  entrance  of  this 
kiosk  which,  if  touched  by  a  liar,  broke. 

Strongly  the  sun  was  shining  that  morning,  almost 
as  if  fiercely  determined  to  show  me  every  detail  of 
mosque  and  mother.  Neither  needed  to  fear  the  reve- 
lation. If  there  is  any  combination  of  materials  more 
beautiful,  more  enticing,  than  marble  and  porcelain,  I 
do  not  know,  and  cannot  imagine  it.  One  is  exquisitely 
cool,  the  other  softly  brilliant.  Sunbeams  seem  to  en- 
dow both  with  a  sort  of  mysterious  life. 

Presently  I  entered  into  the  mosque,  and  was  enfolded 
by  the  shadows  that  kept  the  immense  block  of  stone 
to  which,  so  devout  Moslems  believe,  pilgrim-angels 
were  wont  to  come  more  than  a  thousand  years  before 
Adam  was  made  from  a  pinch  of  dust.  The  silence 
within  was  intense  —  a  silence  some  day  to  be  broken 
by  the  trumpet  of  Israfeel  announcing  the  resurrection 
18  22  1 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

morning.  Surrounded  by  gilding  and  precious  marbles, 
by  tiles  and  mosaics,  by  inscriptions  and  elaborately 
painted  stucco,  by  beautiful  hanging-lamps  and  enor- 
mous chandeliers,  I  found  the  rock,  likeacouchant,  gray- 
brown  monster,  rugged,  uncouth,  and  severe,  stretched 
out  in  a  harsh  repose. 

Innumerable  traditions  cluster  about  it.  It  is  said  to 
cover  an  abyss  in  which  are  contained  all  the  waters  of 
the  Flood,  to  have  supported  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant 
when  they  subsided,  to  have  been  the  scene  of  Abra- 
ham's preparation  for  the  sacrifice  of  Isaac,  to  have  been 
anointed  by  Jacob,  to  be  the  foundation-stone  of  the 
world,  to  have  been  held  down  forcibly  by  the  Angel 
Gabriel  when  it  strove  to  follow  Mohammed,  who, 
mounted  upon  his  miraculous  horse,  El-Burak,  from  the 
spot  where  it  lies  ascended  into  heaven.  And  upon  it 
is  supposed  to  have  been  divinely  written  the  name  of 
God. 

The  great  shrine  which  shelters  it  is  worthy  to  shelter 
such  a  fame.  That  first  day  I  thought  it  gloriously 
beautiful,  and  subsequent  visits  only  deepened  my  ad- 
miration of  it.  The  proportions  seem  to  me  perfect. 
The  extremely  elaborate  and  complicated  decoration  — 
excepting  only  part  of  the  roof,  the  bright  gold  and  seal- 
ing-wax red  of  which  I  thought  too  gaudy  —  is  amaz- 
ingly effective  and  harmonious  and  full  of  a  sort  of  rich 
and  imaginative  mystery.  The  sixteenth-century  glass, 
and  the  mosaics  covering  the  lower  part  of  the  interior 

222 


m 
O 

O 

*T3 


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n 
7: 


C 
> 

r 
m 


JERUSALEM 

of  the  dome,  sparkling  diamond-like  against  a  back- 
ground of  dull  gold,  are  superb.  The  general  color 
effect  is  a  luminous  mystery  of  pearl  and  black,  gold  and 
dim  blue-green,  lit  up  by  the  glint  and  gleam  of  mosaics 
like  jewels.  There  is  also  a  good  deal  of  strong  red. 
The  pillars  are  made  of  dark  marbles  with  brilliantly 
gilded  capitals.  The  screen  round  the  rock  is  of  wood. 
It  is  bordered  by  a  narrow  passageway  paved  with 
marble,  on  the  farther  side  of  which  is  a  tall  screen  of 
wrought-iron,  heavily  gilded,  and  broken  up  by  columns. 
On  a  platform  outside  this  second  screen  is  a  gigantic 
copy  of  the  Koran,  covered  with  agreen  cloth,  and  said  to 
be  almost  the  largest  in  existence.  By  it  stand  wooden 
trays  for  the  slippers  of  worshipers. 

I  descended  under  the  Sacred  Rock,  which  is  hol- 
lowed out,  and  stood  in  a  sort  of  cavern  upon  a  marble 
floor,  while  my  guide  pointed  out  in  the  stone  a  huge 
dent  supposed  to  have  been  made  by  the  head  of  Mo- 
hammed when  he  worshiped  there.  A  plaque  in  the 
floor  indicates  the  place  from  which  the  souls  of  the  good 
will  go  up  to  heaven  on  judgment-day.  All  around  are 
votive  lamps.  I  bent  my  head  to  listen  to  the  far-off 
roaring  of  the  imprisoned  waters  of  the  Flood,  but  no 
sound  reached  my  ears.  At  this  moment  a  Moslem 
whispered  to  me  that  bad  spirits  haunt  the  darkness  be- 
neath the  rock,  so  I  thought  it  wise  to  ascend  into  the 
mosque,  and  after  lingering  in  it  for  a  long  while,  I  came 
away  from  it  convinced  that  very  few  buildings  in  the 

225 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

world  can  compare  with  it  for  beauty  and  splendor.  In 
one  respect  it  is  unique.  For  as  in  that  wonderful  scene 
in  the  first  act  of  "Parsifal"  the  poorly  dressed,  simple 
figure  of  the  gazing  and  wondering  boy  increases  ten- 
fold the  effect  upon  the  audience  of  the  marvels  at  which 
he  is  gazing,  so  in  the  Dome  of  the  Rock  the  rock  itself 
gives  almost  a  poignant  value  to  the  glories  surround- 
ing it.  Contrast  supplies  those  wings  on  which  alone 
beauty  rises  to  the  uttermost  peaks  of  triumph.  And 
surely  the  contrast  between  the  rock  and  the  Dome  of 
the  Rock  is  unique.  This  marvel  of  the  Eastern  world 
is  often  wrongly  called  the  Mosque  of  Omar.  The  real 
Mosque  of  Omar  is  close  to  the  Church  of  the  Holy 
Sepulcher. 

The  vast  inclosure  of  the  Haram  contains  also,  with 
various  lesser  buildings,  the  Mosque  of  El-Aksa,  in  ba- 
silica form,  about  which  controversy  has  raged;  some 
declaring  it  to  be  almost  identical  with  the  church  set 
up  to  the  glory  of  the  Virgin  by  the  Emperor  Justinian, 
while  De  Vogue  and  others  convinced  themselves  that 
it  is  completely  Arab,  though  founded  on  the  site  of  a 
church,  and  still  others,  including  Fergusson,  have  pro- 
tested that  it  was  erected  by  the  Caliph  Abd  El-Melek, 
and  that  neither  the  Mary,  nor  any  other  church,  ever 
stood  on  the  spot  it  covers.  Earthquakes  have  dam- 
aged it,  and  it  has  been  rebuilt  and  repaired  from  time 
to  time.  It  is  very  large,  but  the  interior,  though  finely 
proportioned,  is  neither  very  beautiful  nor  interesting  as 

226 


HK   MOUNT  OF  OLIVES  AS  SEEN   FROM    IFRT'SAI.FAI 


t'4     .         'v«^iMt 


.  ■'i*-y 


■%i 


i^^M1 


JERUSALEM 

a  whole.  Much  of  the  dome,  however,  is  lovely.  It  is 
heavily  incrusted  with  gold.  There  is  some  splendid 
glass,  and  one  of  the  most  exquisite  pulpits  I  have  ever 
seen,  in  cedar  and  ivory.  Quite  alone,  before  the  marble 
niche  that  indicates  the  direction  of  Mecca,  I  found  a 
wild  Bedouin  from  Moab,  clad  in  black  and  red  gar- 
ments, with  a  sheepskin  hung  over  his  shoulders,  pray- 
ing. And  as  I  watched  him  for  a  moment,  gazing  with 
his  piercing  eyes  into  the  distance,  as  if  he  would  trav- 
erse the  spaces  and  look  upon  the  sacred  city,  I  thought 
of  his  mysterious  mountains  keeping  guard  by  the 
Dead  Sea.  He  bowed  down,  and  with  his  forehead 
touched  the  carpet  on  which  he  knelt;  and  at  that  mo- 
ment I  realized  the  meaning  of  the  words  "  Our  Father  " 
as  I  had  never  realized  them  before. 

As  I  was  leaving  the  mosque  I  came  upon  a  very 
old  Nubian.  He  was  reclining  on  a  sheepskin  mat,  with 
a  venerable  white  coat  tied  over  his  head,  writing  with 
red  ink  in  Arabic  upon  a  thin  sheet  of  wood,  and  sing- 
ing to  himself.  Near  to  him  was  a  Turk  repeating  pas- 
sages from  the  Koran.  The  negro  is  a  miracle-man 
and  spends  his  life  in  the  mosque,  always  reposing 
upon  his  mat,  writing  charms  and  singing.  He  traced 
one  for  me  very  slowly,  holding  a  piece  of  paper  against 
his  sheet  of  wood,  and,  after  it  was  covered,  exposing 
it  to  the  air.      I  took  it  away  inclosed  in  a  silver  box. 

More  than  once,  after  happy  hours  in  the  Haram, 
when  perhaps  a  little  weary  of  wandering  from  place  to 

229 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

place, —  from  the  Golden  Gate  to  the  Gate  of  Paradise, 
from  fountain  to  fountain,  from  the  Garden  of  Cypresses 
to  the  mysterious  "Solomon's  Stables,"  where  once  the 
steeds  of  Crusaders  were  tied  up  to  rings  of  stone  which 
may  still  be  seen,  from  the  "Cradle  of  Christ"  to  the 
"Cradle  of  David,"  niches  surmounted  by  domes, —  I 
made  my  way  to  the  white  and  airy  one-roomed  dwell- 
ing of  Sheik  Kalil  el-Danef,  "chef  de  la  Mosquee,"  as 
he  names  himself  on  his  card.  The  handsome,  elderly 
man,  with  venerable  beard  and  lovely  green  turban,  al- 
ways welcomed  me  with  a  noble  civility.  Dressed  in  a 
striped  imtdarrabieh  and  a  kiimbaz,  or  tight-fitting  inner 
garment  of  gray  silk  powdered  with  golden  flowers,  fall- 
ing to  the  feet,  he  preceded  me  to  the  divan,  while  his 
stalwart  son,  a  keeper  of  the  Dome  of  the  Rock,  saun- 
tered to  the  little  cupboard  to  get  out  the  coffee-cups  and 
the  cigarettes.  And  there  we  smoked  and  sipped  in  an 
airy  peace,  looking  out  to  the  Mount  of  Olives,  with  its 
few  trees  and  its  many  buildings.  Sometimes,  lifting 
his  tall  staff  of  office  of  dark  wood  and  silver,  the  sheik 
would  tell  how  the  German  Emperor  sat  there  with  him 
and  spoke  of  the  glories  of  the  Eastern  world.  And 
then  again  silence  would  fall,  and  against  the  white- 
washed walls  the  pale  smoke-wreaths  would  curl  up, 
and  the  strange  stillness  and  peace  of  Islam  would 
gather  about  us  —  a  stillness  and  peace  made  beautiful 
and  strange  not  only  by  the  absence  from  the  little  room 
of  movement  and  sound,  but  also  by  the  presence  within 

230 


t-'-^  a     -    «^'^— 


From  a  photograph,  copyii^ht,  by  riiderwood  &  Underwood 


THP    AK<;a   mosque,  JERUSAIFM 


JERUSALEM 

it  of  souls  of  the  type  that  knows  how  to  resign,  and, 
because  of  that  knowledge,  how  to  accept. 

I  have  said  that  from  this  place  of  peace  we  looked 
out  on  the  Mount  of  Olives.  Upon  its  slopes,  close  to 
Mount  Scopus,  there  are  olive-trees,  but  they  make  little 
effect  to-day.  Indeed,  they  seem  almost  inappropriate. 
For  no  longer  is  this  sacred  hill  a  place  of  retirement. 
It  is  decorated  —  or  defaced?  —  with  buildings.  The 
huge  Russian  tower  proclaims  that  men,  blatant,  alas ! 
even  in  their  religion,  have  made  Olivet  a  center  not  only 
of  faith,  but  also  of  ostentation.  Below,  near  the  road- 
side, the  Garden  of  Gethsemane,  with  its  neat  inclosing 
wall,  its  glass  house,  its  wire-fenced  beds  of  well-or- 
dered, well-tended  flowers, —  stiff  stocks,  violets,  pan- 
sies,  pots  of  cyclamens,  china  asters, — is  smart  and  trim 
as  an  opulent  merchant's  garden  on  the  outskirts  of  his 
native  city.  The  Franciscan  fathers  have  carefully 
shored  up  the  venerable  olive-trees,  which  look  strangely 
out  of  place,  like  strayed  veterans,  in  the  midst  of  their 
gay  surroundings.  Iron  railings  and  wire  nettings  de- 
note the  determination  of  property-owners  to  keep  safely 
all  they  possess.  And  though  before  the  stations  of  the 
cross  which  surround  the  inclosure,  and  before  the 
Agony  in  marble,  with  its  creepers  hanging  about  it,  all 
day  long  the  pilgrims  from  Russia  kneel  and  bedew  the 
earth  with  their  tears,  it  is  difficult  to  realize,  as  one 
pauses  before  the  conservatory  or  looks  at  the  pansies 
over  the  wire  protections,  that  one  stands  in  Gethsemane. 

233 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

From  the  Russians  who  weep  in  Gethsemane  one 
may  go  down  into  the  city  to  the  Jews  who  weep  in 
their  waihng-place.  It  is  strange  and  interesting  to 
compare  the  two  griefs.  Nothing  in  the  Holy  Land 
touched  me  so  much  as  the  simple  faith,  the  deep  rever- 
ence, the  heartfelt  love  and  sorrow,  of  the  Russian 
pilgrims.  Totally  free  from  self-consciousness,  like 
children  they  show  all  the  feelings  of  their  hearts.  In 
all  the  holy  places  they  kiss  the  ground.  Wherever 
they  think  the  Saviour  suffered  or  was  sad,  they  weep 
to-day,  men  and  women  alike.  The  Jews  are  prouder, 
are  more  self-conscious;  yet  every  time  I  visited  their 
wailing-place  I  felt  that  their  grief,  too,  in  its  different, 
less  touching  way,  was  often  genuine. 

The  wailing-place  is  a  rather  narrow  paved  alley  be- 
tween a  whitewashed  wall  and  a  gigantic  ancient  wall 
formed  of  huge  blocks  of  uncemented  stone,  worn  away, 
so  it  is  said,  by  kissing  lips.  Weeds  sprout  in  places 
in  the  numerous  crevices  and  cracks.  In  the  alley  are 
wooden  benches.  The  Jews,  both  men  and  women,  go 
there  not  only  on  Fridays,  but  on  all  the  days  of  the 
week.  Standing  in  rows  close  to  the  great  wall,  with 
their  faces  toward  it  and  almost  touching  it,  they  read 
their  Hebrew  books  of  prayer,  murmur  the  words  aloud, 
weep,  bow,  sometimes  almost  to  the  earth,  and  often 
press  their  lips  fervently  against  the  blocks  of  stone.  The 
women  wear  shawls  and  keep  by  themselves  at  the  ends 
of  the  alley.     The  men  cluster  in  the  middle.     Behind 

234 


1,1.,  .n|,yiiKlil.  !')■   rii.lriwii...!  \    l'l,.l.TlV,.inl 


OVF.k  JKRUSALEM  TO    IirK   MOUNT  Ol-   Ol  I 


JERUSALEM 

these  mourners  a  blind  Moslem,  conducted  by  a  Jew, 
often  goes  to  and  fro  demanding  alms  from  the  onlookers. 
The  wailing-place  is  in  the  Tyropoeon  Valley,  and  the 
great  wall  is  at  the  west  side  of  the  temple  area.  Whereas 
the  Russian  pilgrims  never  even  glance  at  those  who 
watch  their  tears, —  such  at  least  is  my  experience  of 
them, —  the  Jews  are  often  obviously  aware  of  the  inter- 
est their  mourning  creates.  I  have  seen  them  peep 
furtively  round  to  take  observations,  and  return  to  their 
lamentations  with  what  seemed  a  greater  zest  when  they 
knew  the  eyes  of  strangers  were  upon  them.  Never- 
theless, many  of  them  really  weep,  pray  with  earnest- 
ness, and  rock  themselves  to  and  fro  as  if  genuinely 
tormented.  But  the  Jew  is  by  nature  acutely  aware  of 
the  things  and  people  about  him.  The  Russian  peas- 
ant is  not. 

Jerusalem  without,  and  Jerusalem  within,  the  walls  of 
Solyman  are  so  different  from  each  other  that  at  first  I 
had  difficulty  in  connecting  them  in  my  mind  as  the  two 
halves  of  one  whole.  The  outer  Jerusalem  has  a  sub- 
urban and  oddly  livid  aspect,  with  its  many  huge  build- 
ings, hospitals,  churches,  schools,  and  convents,  built 
solidly  of  light-colored  stone,  with  its  muddy  or  dusty 
roads  full  of  pale  Jews,  many  of  them  dressed  in  yellow. 
As  I  rode  into  it  by  the  Nablus  Road  I  received  a  sort 
of  sickly,  almost  bilious  impression  from  it,  and  this 
impression  remained  with  me.  There  is  a  want  of  re- 
pose for  the  eyes.     In  sunshine  there  is  a  glare ;  in  bad 

237 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

weather, —  and  when  I  was  in  Jerusalem,  in  April,  the 
weather  was  seldom  fine, —  a.  peculiar  ghastliness 
such  as  I  cannot  remember  having  noticed  in  any  other 
town.  The  wind  often  blows  hard,  driving  the  long 
garments  of  the  Jews  against  their  thin  legs,  flattening 
the  fur  round  their  hats,  toying  almost  brutally  with  the 
tufts  of  fair  hair  trained  forward  against  their  bloodless 
and  hollow  cheeks.  Whenever  I  think  of  the  new 
Jerusalem  my  eyes  mechanically  blink,  and,  as  in  a 
vision,  I  see  before  me  various  pallors:  whites,  yellows, 
yellow  grays,  yellow  browns,  pinky  reds,  pale  dust,  pale 
mud,  pale  puddles,  white-faced  men  in  yellow  moving 
with  an  air  of  combined  defiance  and  surreptitious  ser- 
vility along  roads  that  look  suburban,  between  large, 
light-colored,  new  houses. 

But,  once  within  the  mighty  walls,  a  fascination  of  the 
East  comes  upon  one  suddenly,  almost  sharply.  The 
so-called  streets  are  paved,  or  sometimes  unpaved,  alleys 
that  no  carriage  can  enter,  though  donkeys  slither  down 
them,  and  camels  pass  slowly  by,  between  the  dusky 
bazaars,  with  heavy  softness,  under  the  innumerable 
arches  of  stone  that  are  characteristic  of  the  city.  The 
principal  streets  are  the  David  Street,  the  Christian 
Street,  and  the  Street  of  the  Palace,  or  Via  Dolorosa, 
spanned  by  the  celebrated  arch  called  the  Ecce  Homo 
Arch.  In  this  last  many  sites  are  pointed  out  to  this 
day  as  connected  with  the  Crucifixion ;  for  down  it  our 
Saviour  is  supposed  to  have  gone  on  the  way  to 
Calvary. 

238 


ABSALOM'S  lUMb,  JliKLSALEM 


TIT» 


c. 


».» 


■ii'f  ,. 


•'i^Wl 


^1 

r^H 

•1 

r'r-m 

^H^^^H  4 

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Hb^ 

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•i^  jai'  >'■ 

t^rjHj 

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r  .  -- 

#?^1^- 


From  a  photograph,  copynylit,  by  Underwood  i  Underwood 


JERUSALEM 

Jerusalem  is  the  home  of  supposition  rather  than  the 
home  of  ascertained  truth.  More  is  probably  taken 
*'on  trust"  there  than  in  any  other  city  in  the  world. 
"  Here,"  says  some  pious  monk,  "  Pilate  took  Jesus  and, 
saying,  '  Behold  the  man ! '  showed  him  to  the  clamor- 
ing crowd."  "  And  here,"  declares  a  Greek  priest,  with 
a  tall,  black  hat  and  flowing,  auburn  hair  and  beard, 
"  the  cross  was  laid  upon  his  sacred  shoulders."  In  the 
Via  Dolorosa  there  are  fourteen  tablets  to  mark  the 
stations  of  the  cross,  but  perhaps  it  is  needless  to  say 
that  the  way  trodden  by  the  feet  of  Christ  is  hidden  far 
down  beneath  the  dust  and  accumulated  rubbish  of  the 
centuries.  At  this  day  no  one  knows  where  are  the 
sites  of  the  stations  of  the  cross,  but  innumerable  people 
solemnly  claim  to  know,  and  thousands  upon  thousands 
are  found  every  year  to  believe  their  fantastic  state- 
ments. 

It  is  both  touching  and  absurd,  as  one  wanders 
through  the  ways  in  the  midst  of  the  amazing  confusion, 
bustle,  intimacy,  and  secretive  reserve  to  be  found  only 
in  an  Eastern  city,  to  see  the  groups  of  pausing  pilgrims, 
many  of  them  moved  to  the  very  depths  of  their  natures, 
listening  and  gazing,  weeping  and  adoring,  while  guides 
and  monks  declaim  lies  almost  consecrated  by  long 
usage.  By  that  broken  column  Christ  sank  down  to 
the  ground  beneath  the  heavy  weight  of  the  cross :  the 
pilgrims  sink  down  to  kiss  the  spot.  There  stood  the 
dwelling  of  Pilate,  and  there  the  dwelling  of  Dives.    At 

241 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

the  corner  of  this  alley  our  Lord  encountered  his  mother; 
a  Httle  farther  on  St.  Veronica  with  her  handkerchief 
wiped  from  his  brow  the  bloody  sweat;  over  there,  by 
the  monastery  now  occupied  by  the  Copts,  a  second 
time  the  Saviour  sank  down  to  earth.  With  imagina- 
tions aflame,  multitudes  of  pilgrims  listen  and  believe. 
Have  they  not  come  across  the  lands  and  the  seas  to 
stand  in  these  narrow  alleys,  to  see,  to  hear,  to  accept? 
Would  it  not  be  cruel  to  tell  them  the  plain  truth,  that 
the  Jerusalem  of  our  Lord  is  buried  far  down  beneath 
the  mud,  the  stones,  or  the  dust  to  which  they  press 
their  trembling  lips?  For  some  of  us  it  is  enough  to 
know  that  in  these  depressions  and  on  these  stony  hills 
was  placed  the  ancient  city  where  the  greatest  tragedy 
of  the  world  was  enacted.  But  for  many  it  is  not 
enough.  So  legend  steps  in.  The  mouths  of  men  utter 
lies,  and  the  minds  of  men  receive  them  and  cherish 
them. 

It  is  interesting  to  walk  outside  the  city,  round  the 
huge  walls,  and  I  did  this  more  than  once,  my  enjoy- 
ment upon  one  occasion  being  disturbed  by  a  persistent 
fusillade  of  small  stones  which  greeted  me  from  above, 
where  no  doubt  some  hidden  Moslem  was  lying  in  wait 
to  pepper  Christian  dogs.  The  walls  are  nearly  forty 
feet  high,  tremendously  solid,  and  pierced  by  seven 
gates.  For  hundreds  of  years  the  eighth  gateway  has 
been  filled  up  with  a  mass  of  stone.  The  bleakness  of 
the  inhospitable  and  melancholy  country  in  the  midst  of 

242 


JERUSALEM 

which  Jerusalem  lies  reveals  itself  nakedly  as  one  passes 
by  above  the  ravines,  looking  down  now  into  the  Valley 
of  Hinnom,  with  the  Mount  of  Evil  Counsel  above  it, 
now  into  the  Valley  of  the  Kedron  watched  over  by 
the  Mount  of  Olives.  Bare  are  the  rounded  hills.  The 
huge  and  straggling  village  of  Siloam  on  the  Hill  of 
Offense  shows  earth-colored  and  gray  under  the  gray 
sky.  Near  by,  within  easy  reach  of  two  sacred  places 
much  visited  by  pilgrims,  the  Fountain  of  the  Virgin, 
and  the  pool  where  the  man  who  had  been  blind  from 
his  birth  received  his  sight,  is  a  huge  building  set  up  by 
Roman  Catholics.  The  asceticism  of  religion  is  sug- 
gested by  the  surroundings  of  Jerusalem,  by  the  almost 
treeless  heights  from  which  pale  rocks  bristle  up,  by  the 
many  arid  plots  of  ground  inclosed  by  walls  of  stone, 
by  the  very  shapes  of  the  hills,  not  fierce,  not  fantastic, 
but  gravely  cold,  a  little  rigid,  a  little  sad,  and  curiously 
reserved  in  their  outlines.  And  in  this  aridity,  this  sad- 
ness of  rounded  hills  and  pallid  rocks,  men  have  elected 
to  build  themselves  homes,  and  women  to  retreat  from 
the  glories  of  the  world.  From  beneath  the  great  walls 
of  Jerusalem  one  looks  into  the  grayness  across  the  ra- 
vines, and  one  sees  dwellings  of  Russians,  Benedictine 
monks,  and  Carmelite  nuns.  There  is  the  Church  of 
the  Dominus  Flevit,  there  the  Church  of  the  Ascension, 
there  the  Church  of  the  Pater,  there  the  elaborate  Rus- 
sian church,  with  its  brightly  gilded  pinnacles  and  domes 
shining  above  Gethsemane  when  a  gleam  of  the  sun 

243 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

breaks  forth.  And  the  mighty  Russian  tower  higher 
up  on  the  Mount  of  OUves  seems  proudly  to  assert  the 
dominion  in  Jerusalem  of  the  bishops  and  priests  of  the 
Greek  Orthodox  Church.  On  the  hill  to  the  north,  near 
the  Grotto  of  Jeremiah,  bloom  the  shrubs  and  flowers 
before  the  so-called  "Garden  Tomb,"  where  some  sup- 
pose that  our  Lord  was  buried  in  a  dark  niche  of  the 
rock,  though  I  believe  the  assertion  that  General  Gordon 
felt  sure  that  this  was  Golgotha  is  erroneous.  Not  far 
off  is  a  traditional  site  of  the  stoning  of  St.  Stephen. 
From  Mount  Moriah,  backed  by  the  huge  wall  inclosing 
the  Haram  esh-Sherif,  where  goats  are  happily  rubbing 
themselves  against  blocks  of  stone  which,  I  was  assured, 
dated  from  the  days  of  Solomon,  you  look  right  into  the 
Garden  of  Gethsemane,  and  can  see  a  train  of  camels 
passing  slowly  between  the  rocks  toward  the  way 
where  the  man  fell  among  thieves. 

The  Church  of  the  Pater,  built  by  the  Princess  Latour 
dAuvergne  on  the  spot  where  Christ  is  said  to  have 
given  the  Lord's  Prayer  to  the  disciples,  is  not  beautiful, 
but  the  Cloisters  of  the  Lord's  Prayer,  surrounding  a 
garden  full  of  irises,  are  interesting  and  touching.  Stand- 
ing there  in  the  arcade,  near  the  white  marble  tomb  of 
the  princess,  and  the  niche  in  which  is  an  urn  contain- 
ing her  father's  heart,  I  thought  of  the  wonderful  musi- 
cal impression  I  received  when  I  first  heard  Elgar's 
setting  of  the  Lord's  Prayer  in  "The  Kingdom" — an 
impression  of  the  universality  of  the  great  fatherhood, 

244 


^ 


From  a  photograph,  copyright,  by  Underwood  A  I'nderwood 


THE  KEDRON  VALLEY,  SILOAM,  AND  THE  WALL 
OF  JERUSALEM 


JERUSALEM 

of  the  one  Shepherd  into  whose  flock  the  Bedouin  is 
gathered  with  the  American,  the  Negro  with  the  English- 
man, the  Moslem  who  sits  by  his  brazier  at  the  gate  of 
the  Holy  Sepulcher  with  the  Greek  from  the  distant 
island  of  the  blue  Mediterranean  Sea,  who  says  his  mass 
in  the  marble  sanctuary.     For  all  round  these  cloisters, 
on  the  walls,  framed  in  fine  tiles,  covered  with  red  and 
blue  flowers,  with  open  leaves  on  a  white  ground,  are 
plaques,  and  each  plaque  presents  the  universal  prayer 
in  a  different  language.     There  are  thirty-two  of  these 
plaques.     The  irises,  moving  in  the  soft  wind,  bend  to- 
ward the  thirty-two  "  Our  Fathers."     The  white,  recum- 
bent figure  of  the  princess  rests  with  folded  hands.   Close 
by,  in  a  narrow  building  from  which  they  never  issue 
forth,  twenty-one  Carmelite  nuns  are  perpetually  pray- 
ing.    From  the  cloisters  it  is  only  a  step  to  the  rock- 
hewn  Chapel  of  the  Credo,  where,  according  to  tradition, 
the  first  great  "I  believe"  was  spoken.     As   I  went 
from  one  to  the  other,  Elgar's  music  seemed  sounding  in 
my  ears,  and  I  saw  again  the  Bedouin  from  Moab,  in 
his  red  and  black  and  his  sheepskin,  with  his  fierce  eyes 
set  toward  Mecca,  adoring  the  Universal  Father  in  the 
El-Aksa  Mosque. 

The  Tomb  of  the  Virgin  in  the  Valley  of  Jehosha- 
phat  is  always  swarming  with  eager  pilgrims,  who  de- 
scend cautiously  in  the  almost  mystic  darkness  to  the 
church  in  the  grotto,  gleaming  faintly  with  tiny  lights 
from  the  lamps  of  gold  and  silver  which  hang  from  the 

247 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

low  and  cavernous  roof.  Upon  the  long  flight  of  steps 
which  leads  to  this  sacred  spot  may  be  found  people  of 
all  nationalities,  going  stealthily,  as  if  under  the  influ- 
ence of  awe,  toward  the  barbaric  shrine  which,  seen 
vaguely  from  above,  always  recalled  to  me  my  childish 
imaginings  of  the  Cave  of  Aladdin.  Even  Mohamme- 
dans wearing  green  turbans  are  to  be  found  upon  these 
steps.  Sometimes  the  nostrils  are  greeted  with  the 
acrid  scent  of  incense,  and  the  ears  with  the  sound  of 
singing.  Processions  come  and  go,  headed  by  priests 
wearing  gorgeous  vestments.  In  the  Cavern  of  the 
Agony  close  by  the  sweet  and  childlike  voices  of  Rus- 
sian women  are  often  lifted  in  hymns  interrupted  by 
weeping  and  lamentations ;  for  between  those  walls  of 
rock  Jesus  is  supposed  to  have  agonized  till  the  bloody 
sweat  fell  from  his  body  to  the  ground. 

Everywhere  in  and  about  Jerusalem  one  is  confronted 
by  rock  hallowed  by  tradition,  bedewed  by  the  tears, 
kissed  by  the  lips,  saluted  by  the  voices,  of  thousands 
upon  thousands  of  pilgrims.  Of  the  rock  in  the  Church 
of  the  Holy  Sepulcher  I  shall  speak  in  another  place. 
Of  the  rock  in  the  dome  of  the  Haram  esh-Sherif  I  have 
already  spoken.  The  new  imprisonment  of  Christ,  the 
Apostles'  cave,  where  it  is  believed  that  the  Apostles 
concealed  themselves  during  the  Crucifixion,  the  cotton 
grotto,  the  Grotto  of  Jeremiah,  and  the  Garden  Tomb, 
are  among  the  innumerable  famous  places  of  the  rocks 
perpetually  haunted  by  travelers  and  worshipers.     The 

248 


THE  DAMASCUS  GATE.  JERUSALEM 


From  a  photograph,  copyri-^ht.  by  L'nderwood  &  (.'iiderwood 


JERUSALEM 

Garden  Tomb  is  kept  by  a  man  from  the  North,  I  be- 
lieve a  Dane,  who  showed  me  round  the  pleasant  in- 
closure  adjoining  the  chamber  in  the  rock,  and  stood 
gravely,  even  rather  sadly,  regarding  his  flowers  and 
shrubs  while  I  penetrated  within.  He  told  me  after- 
ward that  he  had  lived  there  for  years  with  his  wife,  but 
that  she  had  recently  died,  and  he  felt  terribly  alone. 
"This  is  not  my  country,"  he  said  I  wondered,  but 
did  not  ask,  whether  he  was  a  believer  in  the  tradition 
connected  with  the  empty  chamber  of  which  he  was  the 
guardian.  In  Jerusalem  controversy  still  rages  as  to 
where  the  body  of  Christ  really  lay  until  the  Resurrec- 
tion. The  greater  number  of  those  whom  I  met  disbe- 
lieved in  the  Garden  Tomb  and  believed  that  the  real 
tomb  was  situated  not  far  from  the  site,  or  actually  on 
the  site,  of  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher.  When 
I  visited  the  new  imprisonment  of  Christ,  chambers  in 
the  living  rock  now  strangely  included,  as  are  various 
other  rock-hewn  sanctuaries,  in  a  modern  building,  I 
heard,  when  I  was  about  to  penetrate  into  the  low  and 
dark  grotto  in  which  our  Lord  is  said  to  have  been  im- 
prisoned and  kept  for  a  time  by  the  order  of  Pilate,  a 
soft  and  strangely,  innocently  sweet  voice  singing.  I 
stood  for  some  minutes  listening,  wondering  whether 
the  singer  was  a  child.  Then  I  went  on  softly.  In  a 
small  and  low  cavern,  containing  a  tiny  wooden  altar,  I 
found  an  old  Russian  peasant  woman.  She  had  set  a 
votive  candle  upon  the  altar.     This  was  her  only  light. 

251 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

Dressed  in  a  sort  of  tunic  of  some  coarse  and  dark  stuff, 
with  a  short  skirt  and  thick  woolen  leggins,  she  was 
kneehng  on  the  hard  ground,  holding  a  small  book  in 
her  wrinkled  hands  and  singing.  Now  and  then  the 
tears  rolled  down  her  cheeks.  When  I  came  in  she  did 
not  look  at  me.  I  stayed  for  some  time  with  her  in  the 
cavern.  I  do  not  think  she  knew  I  was  there.  Her 
soul  was  with  Christ,  imprisoned,  maltreated,  for  the 
sake  of  all  the  poor  peasants  of  Russia,  of  all  the  poor 
peasants  of  all  lands.  And  the  innocent  tenderness  of 
her  heart,  the  gratitude,  the  sorrow,  the  faith  of  her 
soul,  sent  such  an  indescribable  sweetness,  almost  as  of 
virginal  youth,  into  her  voice,  that  I  shall  not  forget  it. 
The  votive  candle  on  the  tiny  wooden  altar  burned  low. 
I  left  her  singing  alone,  yet  surely  with  one  hearer. 

In  Jerusalem  the  Mohammedans  are  in  possession 
not  only  of  the  Place  of  the  Temple,  but  of  various 
traditional  holy  places.  Perhaps  the  chief  of  these  is  the 
scene  of  the  Last  Supper.  This  famous  site,  which  is 
visited  by  every  pilgrim,  is  connected  also  with  the 
miracle  of  Pentecost,  with  the  appearance  of  Christ  after 
the  Resurrection,  with  the  death  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  and 
with  the  burial  of  David.  It  is  the  "dry  and  sunny 
mount"  of  Zion  which  was  sanctified  by  these  events, 
and  "the  vaulted  Gothic  chamber"  to  which  so  many 
thousands  of  persons  from  all  lands  come  every  year  is 
certainly  hallowed  by  their  belief,  if  by  nothing  else. 
Only  a  copy  of  the  tomb  of  David  is  shown  to  Chris- 

252 


JERUSALEM 

tians.  The  huge  stone  sarcophagus,  shrouded  in  tapes- 
tries, which  is  claimed  to  be  his  burial-place  may  not  be 
visited.  It  lies  under  a  canopy  in  the  lowest  of  the  three 
chambers  which,  with  other  buildings,  are  collectively 
called  En-Nebi  Daud.  Once  the  Franciscan  fathers 
dominated  Mount  Zion,  but  now  the  Moslems  bear  rule 
there.  And  where  St.  Stephen  was  stoned  to  death  they 
exercise  an  authority  not  wholly  free  from  arrogance 
over  those  whom,  if  one  may  judge  by  their  demeanor 
and  their  very  expressive  glances,  they  would  not  be 
sorry  to  send  to  a  similar  martyrdom.  For  human 
passions  run  riot  in  Jerusalem.  The  voice  of  one  reli- 
gion clamors  against  the  voice  of  another.  One  night 
in  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher  I  heard  the  hymns 
of  "  Holy  Russia"  clashing  with  the  chants  of  the  Fran- 
ciscans. Discord  echoed  about  the  walls  of  the  house 
of  marble.     Jerusalem  is  the  home  of  discord. 

In  my  concluding  chapter  I  shall  try  to  describe 
the  exceptional  Holy  Week  and  Easter  I  spent 
there — exceptional  because  the  Latin  and  the  Greek 
Rasters  fell  for  once  on  the  same  day.  In  that  week  it 
seemed  as  if  the  religious  life  of  the  whole  world  cen- 
tered in  the  Court  and  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher. 
But  the  lesson  of  Galilee  was  forgotten,  and  among  all 
the  voices  uplifted,  not  one  uttered  the  words  that  seem 
breathed  by  the  long  slopes  and  the  dreamy  waters, 
"Blessed  are  the  peacemakers,  for  they  shall  be  called 
the  children  of  God." 

253 


THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHER. 
THE  CEREMONIES  AT  JERUSALEM 


VII 


THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHER. 
THE  CEREMONIES  AT  JERUSALEM 

MY  first  impression  in  the  Church  of  the  Holy 
Sepulcher  was  that  I  had  suddenly  come  into 
a  barbaric  castle  of  magic  connected  with  in- 
numerable caves  of  Aladdin.  Amazement  sat  like  a 
weight  upon  me  as  I  looked  at  the  strange  and  glitter- 
ing mystery.  Yes,  this  must  be  a  castle  of  magic,  and 
about  me  were  caves  of  Aladdin — caves  lined  with  sil- 
ver and  gold,  and  immense  jewels  unknown  to  me; 
caves  across  which  miraculous  spiders  had  spun  webs 
of  silver  and  gold.  Stars  gleamed  in  them ;  footsteps 
echoed,  voices  murmured,  eery  lights  twinkled, —  al- 
most like  miners'  lights  in  the  earth's  black  bowels, — 
marvelous  fabrics  shone  softly  among  great  pictures, 
carved  wood,  marble,  bronzes,  and  gilded  ironwork. 
Fortunes  were  laid  up  here  in  this  world  of  brilliance 
and  gloom.  As  I  paused,  it  almost  seemed  to  me  as  if 
I  heard  the  beat  of  the  picks  of  the  Nibelnngen.  As 
I  looked,  the  painted  faces  of  saints  and  virgins,  of 
prophets  and  martyrs,  seemed  for  a  moment  to  be  the 

257 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

faces  of  magicians  and  sorceresses,  watching  the  en- 
chanted victims  of  desires  that  were  unearthly. 

The  most  wonderful  church  in  Christendom !  But  was 
it  really  a  church?  And  I  waited  spellbound;  and  pres- 
ently a  crowd  of  impressions  beset  me. 

To  gain  this  astounding  sanctuary,  the  church  of  the 
five  creeds,  of  the  five  monasteries,  of  from  twenty  to 
thirty  chapels,  of  the  seventy  sacred  localities,  in  which 
the  traditional  site  of  Calvary  is  inclosed  with  the 
legendary  site  of  Adam's  burial-ground,  the  place  of  the 
Virgin's  agony,  with  the  place  of  the  resurrection,  I  had 
passed  through  the  narrow,  dirty,  crowded,  and  mar- 
velous alleys  called  streets  in  Jerusalem,  leaving  on  the 
left  the  Greek  monastery  where  the  Patriarch  Damianos 
lives,  often  in  fear  for  his  life,  had  descended  between  the 
rows  of  bazaars  dedicated  to  the  wants  of  the  Russian 
pilgrims,  where,  amid  groves  of  sacred  pictures  and 
forests  of  gilded  and  painted  candles,  the  soft-tongued 
goblin-men  were  busily  fleecing  the  simple  children  of 
the  steppes,  and  had  traversed  the  great  quadrangle 
called  the  court  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher. 

In  that  court,  already  I  had  been  aware  of  the  tug  of 
something  strange,  powerful,  and  almost  terrible ;  I  had 
felt  the  first  eddies  of  the  whirlpool  trying  to  suck  me  in, 
and  had  paused,  had  almost  braced  my  muscles  for  re- 
sistance. 

The  courtyard  is  roughly  paved,  and  has  two  levels 
connected  by  steps,  the  lower  level  being  flush  with  the 

258 


vHfll  " 


THE  COURT  OF  THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHER, 
EASTER  MORNING 


CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHER 

main  entrance  of  the  church,  which  is  on  the  south  side. 
Much  of  it  dates  from  the  time  of  the  Crusades.  It  is 
surrounded  by  walls  and  buildings.  The  facade  of  the 
church  does  not  suggest  the  wonders  of  the  interior. 
It  is  brown  and  gray,  with  a  rugged  belfry  to  the  left 
containing  bells,  and  along  the  flat  top  an  iron  railing. 
Over  the  doorway  is  an  arch,  with  pillars,  joining  a 
second  arch  which  is  filled  up  with  masonry.  Above 
these  are  two  more  arches,  with  ugly  windows.  To 
the  right  there  is  a  sort  of  stunted  tower,  with  a  cupola 
covered  with  lead. 

At  my  first  coming  into  the  court  I  had  been  unable 
to  notice  these  details,  for  humanity  seethed  within  it. 
A  roar  of  voices  went  up.  The  pavement  echoed  with 
the  ceaseless  tramping  of  feet  and  the  grounding  of  mus- 
kets. The  walls  flung  back  exclamations  and  cries: 
the  whining  and  shrieking  of  beggars,  the  loud  calling 
of  sellers  determined  to  compel  attention  to  their  wares, 
the  vehement  discussions  of  "  those  that  bought  "  ;  and 
—  I  had  almost  said  the  silence  of  the  Russian  pilgrims. 
For  mystic  Russia  was  there,  mute  at  the  threshold  of 
Calvary. 

All  along  the  steps  and  about  the  walls  of  the  court 
were  ranged  rows  of  venders  of  beads  and  glass  brace- 
lets from  Hebron,  of  mother-of-pearl  rosaries,  crosses 
of  cedar,  cheap  necklaces,  sacred  pictures,  sweetmeats, 
foods,  and  syrups.  Arabs  were  there,  and  Syrians; 
men  from  the  Lebanon,  from  Damascus,  from  Hebron; 
21  261 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

Bedouins  and  English  clergymen ;  Egyptians,  Ameri- 
cans, Abyssinians,  Roman  Catholic  priests;  Russian 
and  Greek  priests ;  Turks,  Circassians,  Negroes,  Kabail, 
and  Copts.  Near  the  church,  at  the  foot  of  the  steps, 
was  a  company  of  Turkish  soldiers  in  shabby  uniforms, 
with  muskets  and  well-filled  cartridge-belts,  patient, 
hardy,  ready  for  anything.  Beyond  them,  through  the 
great  doorway,  at  the  left  of  which,  on  their  platform  of 
stone  under  a  white  arch,  were  visible  the  turbans,  dark 
faces,  and  djelabs  of  the  Moslem  gatekeepers,  the  Rus- 
sian pilgrims  poured,  an  everflowing  river  of  humanity, 
to  lay  out  their  possessions  upon  the  holy  stone  of 
unction.  And  swiftly,  irresistibly,  the  eddies  of  the 
human  whirlpool  drew  me  in  to  the  river  of  Russians, 
and  I  found  myself  bewildered,  entranced,  and  now  the 
prey  of  a  crowd  of  impressions,  within  the  immense 
building  that  at  this  moment  was  the  core  of  the  heart 
of  the  Christian  world. 

People,  multitudes  of  people,  were  there  adoring.  By 
degrees  I  realized  that.  This  extraordinary  labyrinth 
of  vestibules,  sacristies,  chapels,  shrines,  balconies,  stair- 
cases, alcoves,  crypts,  and  caves  in  the  living  rock, 
was  swarming  with  pilgrims,  with  hundreds  upon 
hundreds, —  I  am  almost  tempted  to  say  with  thou- 
sands upon  thousands, —  crossing  themselves,  bowing, 
kneeling,  kissing,  rising,  going  onward ;  standing  rapt 
in  the  illumination  cast  from  jeweled  lamps  by  marble 
sanctuaries ;  sleeping  in  stalls  of  elaborately  carved  wood 

262 


;fth=;fmane  and  the  mount  of  olives 


]  toiii  a  phoioj^raph.  copynyht.  I>y  I'lulerw-mKl  A  t'luierwood 


CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHER 

beneath  glittering  ikons;  leaning  over  the  gilded  rails 
of  balconies  far  up  in  niches  incrusted  with  gold  and 
silver;  passing  like  gloomy  shadows  under  vaults  of 
naked  stone  scarcely  revealed  by  guttering  candles,  ac- 
companied by  hollow  echoes;  weeping  by  altars  and 
columns,  by  footprints  in  the  rock;  creeping  to  gaze 
through  holes  into  holy  darknesses;  praying  beneath 
crosses;  singing  sweetly,  surrounded  by  the  immobile 
figures  and  the  smiling  faces  of  angels ;  laying  out  rosa- 
ries, pictures,  bits  of  silk,  handkerchiefs,  bracelets,  neck- 
laces, on  sacred  stones ;  passing  their  foreheads,  their 
arms,  their  hands,  to  and  fro  over  surfaces  worn  away 
by  the  passionate  lips  of  dead  multitudes. 

The  faces  in  the  pictures  no  longer  seemed  to  me  faces 
of  magicians  and  sorceresses.  I  recognized  them  for 
what  they  were.  I  went  to  the  stone  of  unction,  then 
back  to  the  marble  house,  before  which  stood  a  dense 
mass  of  humanity.  The  first  impression  was  gone. 
This  was  a  huge,  barbaric,  mysterious  temple  of  wor- 
ship, inclosing  a  sort  of  delirium  of  faith  and  of  love. 
Yes,  I  thought  of  it  then  as  a  delirium ;  but  I  had  not 
seen  the  holy  fire. 

Within  the  precincts  of  this  temple  are  included, 
among  many  other  sacred  sites,  the  places  where  tra- 
dition affirms  that  our  Lord  was  imprisoned  with  the 
two  malefactors  before  the  crucifixion;  where  he  was 
scourged;  where  he  was  crowned  with  the  thorns; 
where  the  three  crosses  were  set  up  on  Calvary ;  where 

265 


T|1E  HOLY  LAND 

the  soldier  stood  when  he  pierced  the  Saviour's  side ; 
where  Christ's  raiment  was  parted  ;  where  his  body  was 
laid  for  its  anointing;  where  he  was  buried  and  rose 
again ;  where  he  showed  himself  to  Mary  Magdalene ; 
and  where  he  appeared  to  his  mother  after  the  resur- 
rection. All  these  spots  are  marked  out  from  the  rest 
of  the  church,  and  pilgrims  were  worshiping  at  all.  And 
the  worship  of  these  countless  multitudes,  amid  the 
amazing  surroundings,  produced  upon  the  mind,  almost 
upon  the  body,  after  a  time,  a  hypnotic  effect. 

The  stone  of  unction,  the  first  of  the  holy  places,  close 
to  the  Moslem  guardians,  is  raised  above  the  pavement, 
and  lies  in  a  setting  of  red  and  yellow  marble.  Above 
it  hang  eight  white  lamps  from  chains  formed  by  golden 
crosses,  strung  together  and  surmounted  with  ostrich 
eggs  set  in  gold  and  decorated  with  crosses  of  red. 
There  are  also  immense  candelabra,  and  huge  candles 
in  carved  black  candlesticks.  To  the  left,  not  far  off, 
the  stone  where  the  women  stood  watching  is  dis- 
tinguished by  a  cupola  of  iron,  with  more  lamps  and 
chandeliers.  Beneath  a  plaque  of  brass  a  rent  in  the 
rock,  above  which  much  of  the  church  is  built,  is  be- 
lieved to  have  been  made  when  the  earth  quaked  after 
the  death  of  Christ.  A  hole  above  an  altar,  close  to 
where  the  Virgin  is  supposed  to  have  met  her  risen  son, 
enables  worshipers  to  touch  with  a  rod  the  column  to 
which  Christ  was  bound  while  the  soldiers  scourged 
him.     Another  column  indicates  where  Christ  sat  when 

266 


CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHER 

they  placed  on  his  head  the  crown  of  thorns.  On  Cal- 
vary has  been  erected  an  altar  above  an  aperture  cut  in 
a  slab  of  marble  through  which  can  be  felt  the  rock 
where  Christ's  cross  was  set  up. 

Wherever  you  look  in  this  gorgeous  and  somber 
labyrinth,  you  see  some  holy  place,  with  pilgrims  bow- 
ing down  before  it,  crossing  themselves,  kneehng,  press- 
ing their  foreheads  and  their  lips  against  it.  They  rise, 
they  move  on,  and  vanish  into  the  shadows,  going  up- 
ward, perhaps,  to  some  hidden  shrine  near  the  roof,  or 
downward  to  some  sacred  stone  in  the  caverns  that  are 
part  of  the  church  — possibly  past  the  altar  of  the  peni- 
tent thief  to  the  place  where  the  Empress  Helena  dis- 
covered the  crown  of  thorns  and  the  three  crosses.  And 
instantly  their  places  are  taken,  and  you  see  the  same 
gestures  made,  the  same  postures  assumed,  by  others, 
who  have  appeared  mysteriously  from  some  winding 
of  the  sacred  maze. 

Before  the  stone  of  unction  there  are  often  two  lines 
of  pilgrims  kneeling,  men  and  women  of  Russia,  hold- 
ing parcels  of  purchases  made  in  Jerusalem.  They 
cross  themselves,  kiss  the  stone,  then  eagerly  open 
their  packets,  and  bring  out  their  cherished  posses- 
sions—caps, thin  shawls,  handkerchiefs,  rosaries,  pic- 
tures, candles.  All  are  laid  out  on  the  stone,  which  is 
sometimes  almost  concealed  from  sight.  The  shawls 
and  the  handkerchiefs  are  rubbed  to  and  fro  over  its  worn 
surface.     Then  the  parcels  are  made  up  again,  are  care- 

267 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

fully  tied,  and  with  many  crossings  and  genuflections 
the  pilgrims  rise  up  to  continue  their  long  round  of  the 
sacred  sites.  Few  of  them  omit  to  visit  and  pray  at 
even  one.  They  are  never  weary  of  worship.  They 
seem  filled  with  a  holy  energy  which  conquers  all 
bodily  weakness.  But  when  the  Easter  is  over,  and 
the  last  ceremony  is  finished,  death  takes  its  toll  of 
many,  and  through  the  dusty  or  muddy  roads  of  Jeru- 
salem funeral  processions  pass  swiftly,  almost  at  a  run, 
a  wild-looking  priest  striding  at  the  head,  and  singing 
Russians  following.  And  in  the  midst  of  every  proces- 
sion, raised  high  on  a  bier,  but  not  soldered  down  in 
a  coffin,  is  the  body  of  a  Russian  who  has  fulfilled  a 
dear  ambition,  and  has  died  in  the  land  of  Jesus. 

Almost  hypnotized  that  first  day,  I  wandered  through 
the  labyrinth,  visiting  the  great  rotunda  of  the  sepul- 
cher,  the  Copts'  chapel,  the  Latin  sacristy,  the  Greek 
cathedral,  once  part  of  a  cathedral  of  Crusaders,  with  its 
column  marking  the  center  of  the  world,  the  chapels  of 
Adam,  of  the  Syrians,  of  the  apparition,  of  the  forty 
martyrs,  of  the  invention  of  the  cross  —  visiting,  it  al- 
most seemed  to  me,  a  thousand  places  where  people 
were  kneeling,  praying,  adoring,  and  weeping.  But 
again  and  again  the  human  whirlpool  seemed  to  suck 
me  back  to  the  house  of  marble,  beneath  the  high,  blue 
dome,  which  protects  a  stone  set  in  marble,  and  a  marble 
altar,  lighted  by  lamps  made  of  silver  and  gold,  and  or- 
namented with  jewels.     This  is  the  chapel  of  the  Holy 

268 


From  a  pholo^rapli.  copyright,  liy  Underwood  A:  Underwood 


VIA  DOLOROSA 


CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHER 

Sepulcher.  Tradition  states  that  the  stone  it  contains 
was  rolled  away  from  Christ's  tomb  by  the  angel.  The 
altar  of  marble  where  mass  is  said  every  day  covers  the 
place  of  the  tomb.  It  is  there  that  the  so-called  miracle 
of  the  holy  fire  is  accomplished,  and  it  is  there,  beneath 
the  figures  of  angels  with  clasped  hands,  that  the  pil- 
grims adore  most  fervently,  and  make  their  longest 
prayers,  and  nearly  all  day  long  sing  hymns  to  their 
risen  Saviour.  There  indeed  is  the  center  of  the  Chris- 
tian world  at  the  wonderful  time  of  Easter. 

The  first  ceremony  which  I  saw  was  the  washing  of 
the  feet.  There  followed  the  burial  of  Christ,  the  holy 
fire,  the  Abyssinian  service  on  Easter  eve,  the  Greek 
celebration  on  the  night  of  Easter,  the  Easter  morning 
procession,  and  the  Easter  Monday  service  in  the  won- 
derful old  Armenian  Church  of  St.  James.  Of  these  by 
far  the  most  extraordinary  was  the  holy  fire.  The  one 
which  most  touched  me,  I  could  scarcely  say  why,  was 
the  Easter  morning  procession. 

The  ceremony  of  the  washing  of  the  feet  took  place 
in  the  open  air,  in  the  court  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher,  and 
I  witnessed  it  from  the  belfry  of  the  Greek  monastery, 
high  above  the  city  and  rather  too  near  to  the  bells. 
When  I  had  reached  my  aery,  and  looked  down  over 
the  parapet,  I  had  a  bird's-eye  view  of  the  court,  which 
was  crammed  with  pilgrims,  kept  back  from  a  platform 
which  stood  in  the  middle  by  lines  of  Turkish  soldiers. 
This  platform  was  covered  with  a  gaudy  carpet  and 
protected  by  a  green  railing,  within  which  were  two 

27  I 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

benches.  On  each  bench  was  a  row  of  six  cushions. 
On  a  dais,  gained  by  a  step  and  carpeted  with  red  and 
gold,  stood  a  gilt  throne,  in  front  of  which  were  placed 
a  great  gilt  ewer,  a  gilt  tray,  and  a  voluminous  white 
towel.  Against  a  wall  of  the  court  opposite  to  the  plat- 
form there  was  a  flight  of  steps,  painted  green,  leading 
to  a  small  green  platform  or  pulpit.  As  I  glanced  to- 
ward it,  two  men  ascended  to  it  and  nailed  to  the  wall 
above  it  a  picture  of  Christ  washing  the  feet  of  the 
apostles. 

The  roar  of  voices  rose  up  to  me.  I  saw  the  crowd 
surging  this  way  and  that;  Turkish  officers  in  blue  and 
red,  some  of  them  wearing  frock-coats,  moving  to  and 
fro  watchfully  in  the  clear  space  before  the  platform; 
the  soldiers  fighting,  but  good-naturedly,  with  the  peo- 
ple. Nearer  to  me  were  masses  of  gazers,  on  balconies, 
and  at  the  windows  of  houses.  One  great  window 
space,  with  red  and  green  shutters  and  before  it  a  railing, 
was  reserved  for  the  pasha  of  Jerusalem,  and  was  oc- 
cupied for  the  moment  by  a  priest  and  a  soldier.  Later 
the  pasha  would  come,  who,  as  soon  as  the  ceremony 
is  over,  has  to  despatch  to  Constantinople  this  telegram, 
"Past  in  peace."  In  the  angles  formed  by  the  walls  of 
the  court  were  wooden  boxes,  or  cases,  slung  on  ropes, 
which  dangled  from  projections  and  railings.  And  in 
each  of  these  boxes,  from  fifteen  to  twenty  feet  above 
the  heads  of  the  crowd,  sat  audacious  spectators.  Even 
while  I  looked  at  them,  in  amazement  mingled  with 
anxiety,  the  rope  that  upheld  one  of  the  boxes  suddenly 

272 


MOSQUE  OF  OMAR 


CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHER 

gave  way,  and  with  a  shriek  the  occupants,  a  woman 
and  two  men,  crashed  down  upon  the  Russians  beneath. 

In  the  midst  of  the  uproar  that  followed  this  event  a 
solitary  priest  appeared,  wearing  the  tall  black  head-gear 
of  the  Orthodox  Church  and  a  gorgeous  red-and-gold 
vestment,  and  carrying  an  immense  copy  of  the  Greek 
Testament  bound  in  gold.  With  great  precaution  he 
crept  up  into  the  pulpit  beneath  the  picture  of  Christ, 
and  in  a  loud  voice  began  to  declaim  a  passage  of  Scrip- 
ture. But  almost  immediately  his  voice  was  drowned 
by  a  deafening  noise  close  to  me.  A  great  bell  in  my 
aery  was  being  struck  with  a  sort  of  hammer  to  an- 
nounce the  approach  of  the  procession.  Very  slowly  it 
came  from  the  church  to  the  platform  in  the  center  of 
the  court  down  a  lane  kept  by  the  soldiers.  Cavasses 
in  blue  and  gold,  carrying  long  staffs,  walked  first;  then 
a  priest  in  black,  with  a  tight  bouquet  of  flowers ;  then 
a  train  of  boys  in  red  and  gold,  bearing  a  silver  cross 
and  a  mighty  candle.  They  advanced  to  the  platform 
and  paused.  The  bell  stopped.  There  was  a  silence 
broken  only  by  the  voice  from  the  pulpit,  which  con- 
tinued pitilessly,  with  strange,  nasal  inflections  like  those 
of  a  muezzin.  One  man,  the  priest  in  black  with  the 
bouquet,  had  mounted  the  platform  and  stood  by  the 
throne  of  the  patriarch. 

Two  or  three  minutes  elapsed.  Then  a  long  stream  of 
bishops  and  priests,  headed  by  an  immense  gold  cross, 
and  wearing  black  hats,  long  veils,  and  red-and-gold 

22  275 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

vestments,  flowed  into  the  court.  The  bell  raised  once 
more  its  barbaric  voice,  and  Damianos,  the  Patriarch, 
the  persecuted,  the  adored,  the  man  from  the  Greek  isles 
whom  other  men  of  the  isles  were  ready,  it  was  said,  to 
poison  if  they  could  only  get  the  opportunity,  appeared, 
looking  really  magnificent,  with  an  immense  and  glit- 
tering miter  on  his  head,  and  clad  in  a  robe  that  was 
almost  the  color  of  magenta  and  was  stiff  with  raised 
gold  embroideries.  With  a  peculiar,  almost  feminine 
grace,  he  slowly  mounted  the  platform  and  took  his  seat 
on  the  throne.  Twelve  bishops  sat  down  on  the 
benches  to  right  and  left  of  him.  Beside  him,  motion- 
less, stood  a  priest  holding  a  Bible  and  a  staff  decorated 
with  ribbons.  At  the  end  of  each  row  of  bishops  stood 
a  dignitary  in  red  and  gold  of  whose  rank  I  am  igno- 
rant. Now  all  rose,  the  patriarch  took  the  Bible  and 
read  a  passage,  thus  forming  a  duet  with  the  priest  in 
the  pulpit,  who  went  on  declaiming  without  a  moment's 
respite.  Then  all  sat  down  except  the  patriarch  and 
the  priest  beside  him. 

Amid  the  deep  silence  of  the  enormous  crowd  the 
patriarch  bent  his  head.  The  priest  removed  his  miter, 
then,  assisted  by  another  priest,  took  off  his  vestments, 
leaving  him  standing  in  a  long,  gray-blue  robe  that 
looked  exactly  like  a  shirt.  They  tied  about  him  a 
voluminous  white  apron,  and  he  poured  water  from  the 
gilded  ewer  into  the  gilded  dish.  While  he  had  been 
prepared  for  his  curious  task,  the  twelve  bishops,  who 

276 


EASTER   PILGRIMS  TO  JERUSALi^M 


From  ;i  |)h(>tot:ra[>)i    coi)yrii;tU.  t,;i>j,  '■>   I  ii.lrrwi''!  \  I  ii'l<:r»-.>'_Hl 


CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHER 

represented  the  twelve  apostles,  had  bared  their  twelve 
right  feet,  and  now  Damianos,  in  a  thoroughly  business- 
like way,  went  from  one  to  the  other.  Before  each  one 
he  knelt  on  one  knee,  took  the  bare  foot,  washed  it 
with  water,  vigorously  dried  it  with  the  towel,  then  rose, 
allowed  the  washed  bishop  to  kiss  his  hand,  and  in  re- 
turn kissed  him  on  the  cheek.  This  little  formality 
accomplished,  Damianos  passed  on,  while  the  bishop, 
as  if  in  a  hurry,  put  on  his  stocking  and  his  substantial 
black  boot.  Up  and  down  the  two  lines  the  priest 
holding  the  bouquet  followed  the  patriarch.  When  all 
the  bishops  were  duly  washed,  the  apron  was  taken  off, 
the  miter  and  vestments  were  donned,  and  the  bishops 
came  one  by  one,  stood  before  the  throne,  bent,  and 
spoke  into  the  patriarch's  ear.  He  bowed,  leaned  for- 
ward, replied,  then  descended  from  the  platform,  stood 
in  front  of  the  crowd,  and  read  a  passage  of  Scripture 
from  a  big  Bible.  While  he  was  doing  this,  from  be- 
yond the  surrounding  buildings  there  floated  into  the 
court  a  loud  noise  of  military  music.  Soldiers  were 
marching  to  St.  Stephen's  Gate  to  meet  the  Moham- 
medan procession  on  the  way  to  the  Tomb  of  Moses 
and  clear  a  passage  for  it  through  the  Mohammedan 
crowd.  The  shrill  shriek  of  the  Turkish  march  had  not 
died  away  when  the  foot-washing  was  over,  and  Dami- 
anos and  his  clergy  were  passing  through  the  narrow 
alley  between  the  candle  bazaars  on  their  way  to  the 
Greek  monastery.     Damianos  now  held  the  tight  bou- 

279 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

quet,  dipped  it  from  time  to  time  in  holy  water,  and 
sprinkled  the  crowd.  As  I  stood  in  a  doorway  he 
threw  some  drops  upon  me,  smiling  gently,  and  mur- 
muring in  Greek,  "I  wish  you  a  happy  Easter." 

Immediately  after  the  procession  had  entered  the 
monastery.  His  Beatitude  was  good  enough  to  receive 
me  in  private.  I  was  shown  into  a  fine  reception-room 
containing  a  throne  and  some  sofas  and  chairs.  After 
I  had  waited  ten  minutes,  Damianos  entered,  accom- 
panied by  a  young  priest  with  long  auburn  hair  and 
beard,  who  acts  as  his  secretary  and  interpreter.  He 
received  me  with  smiling  cordiality,  sat  down  on  an 
ordinary  chair  opposite  to  me,  leaned  forward,  and 
talked  to  me  in  Greek.  Everything  he  said  was  trans- 
lated into  excellent  English  by  his  secretary. 

I  looked  at  this  man,  who  has  been,  and  possibly  still 
is,  in  a  difficult  position,  with  an  interest  that  I  did  not 
try  to  conceal.  He  is  large,  bulky,  yet  somehow  elegant 
and  graceful ;  imposing,  with  fine  features  and  eyes,  and 
the  manners  of  a  prince  of  the  Church ;  easy  and  abso- 
lutely self-possessed.  People  in  Jerusalem  said  he  was 
honest  and  good,  but  not  strong  enough  to  rule  his  tur- 
bulent and  often  self-seeking  priests.  When  I  was  in 
Palestine  he  lived  in  fear  of  being  poisoned  by  them,  it 
was  said,  and  ate  only  food  prepared  by  his  personal 
servant. 

Our  conversation  ran  on  my  travels,  on  England  and 
English  life,  and  on  the  ceremonies  and  functions  of 

280 


CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHER 

Holy  Week  and  Easter.  After  taking  coffee,  and  jam 
served  with  a  glass  of  water,  I  got  up  to  say  good-by ; 
but  His  Beatitude  stopped  me. 

"  Wait  a  moment.    Are  you  going  to  the  Holy  Fire  ?" 

I  said  that  I  was,  and  had  taken  a  place  high  up  in  a 
balcony. 

"I  will  give  you  a  special  card,"  said  Damianos.  He 
sent  the  young  priest  for  one  of  his  visiting-cards,  wrote 
some  words  on  it,  and  gave  it  to  me.  "  That  will  insure 
you  a  place  in  front  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher." 

I  thanked  him  warmly,  and  took  my  departure. 

The  card  of  Damianos  was  nearly  to  prove  my  un- 
doing. Almost  the  whole  of  Good  Friday  I  passed  in 
the  Church  of  the  Sepulcher.  I  was  there  by  eight  in 
the  morning,  and  I  was  there  very  late  in  the  night. 
Already  at  eight  the  church  swarmed  with  Russian  pil- 
grims, who  were  encamped  about  the  holy  places  in 
readiness  for  the  miracle  of  the  morrow.  Throughout 
the  whole  of  Friday  night  they  remained  in  their  places, 
some  of  them  sleeping  in  upright  positions,  others  re- 
clining on  the  pavement  with  their  heads  supported  on 
bundles,  others  again  crouched  in  doorways,  on  the 
floors  of  balconies,  or  against  cavern  walls.  Many  were 
merely  black  humps  and  mounds  in  the  dense  obscurity. 
But  the  flickering  light  from  the  hundreds  of  hanging- 
lamps  fell  on  the  seamed  faces  and  mystic  eyes  of  many 
more,  on  knotted  hands  patiently  folded  over  staffs, 
which  made  me  think  of  the  words,  "Thy  rod  and  thy 

281 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

staff  they  comfort  me,"  on  lips  moving  in  prayer  through 
the  Hvelong  night.  And  among  these  crowds  was  the 
pale  effigy  of  Jesus  nailed  to  the  cross,  borne  by  the 
Franciscans  to  the  stone  of  unction,  laid  thereon,  prayed 
over,  anointed,  borne  on  amid  the  wailing  of  many 
voices  and  the  falling  of  many  tears,  to  be  hidden  in  the 
perfumed  sepulcher.  That  night,  despite  the  crowds  in 
the  sacred  building,  it  seemed  a  wonderful  and  hushed 
sanctuary,  where  the  living  might  dream  in  the  soft 
radiance  of  lamps  that  looked  like  jewels,  and  the  dead 
might  profoundly  sleep  amid  the  profound  shadows. 
With  the  morning  came  a  vehement  change. 

I  started  early,  and  as  I  made  my  way  through  the 
narrow  streets,  accompanied  by  Mr.  David  Jamal,  and 
holding  tightly  the  card  of  Damianos,  I  realized  that 
the  city  was  in  a  turmoil  of  expectation.  The  crowds 
in  the  alleys  were  enormous,  and  when  we  presently 
turned  to  the  right,  to  descend  into  the  court  of  the 
Holy  Sepulcher,  I  heard  below  me  that,  extraordinary, 
that  terribly  vital  sound,  the  roaring  voice  of  a  mob  ir- 
responsible with  excitement.  Almost  like  leaves  whirled 
along  by  rushing  waters  we  were  taken  and  swept  down 
into  the  court,  where  a  squad  of  Turkish  soldiers  was 
keeping  a  way  free  to  the  entrance  of  the  church  against 
a  throng  of  fiercely  turbulent  Christians,  frantic  with  the 
desire  to  join  the  thousands  of  people  who  already 
crammed  the  rotunda.  Just  as  we  were  nearing  this 
narrow,  open  space,  the  soldiers,  apparently  angered  by 

282 


From  a  photograph,  copyright,  by  Underwood  &■  I'liderwood 


THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHER  AT  EASTER 


CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHER 

the  incessant  struggling  of  the  crowd,  formed  up  in  Hne 
right  across  the  court,  and  with  Hfted  muskets  advanced, 
pressing  every  one  roughly  back.  Not  for  some  min- 
utes would  they  allow  the  unfortunate  ticket-holders  to 
pass,  but  treated  us  all  alike  as  brawhng  malcontents. 
In  vain  I  thrust  my  large,  white  card,  bearing  the  patri- 
arch's name,  under  the  scowling  brown  faces.  Shout- 
ing words  I  could  not  understand,  they  only  drove  me 
back,  and  I  was  beginning  to  despair  of  getting  into 
the  church  at  all  when,  why  I  know  not,  there  was  a 
sudden  lull,  in  which  Mr.  Jamal  attracted  the  attention 
of  a  Greek  priest  and  a  Turkish  officer.  In  an  instant 
my  card  was  examined,  and  I  was  free  to  walk  with 
such  dignity  as  my  disordered  condition  would  permit 
between  the  lines  of  soldiers  into  the  great  church  from 
which,  as  I  neared  it,  came  a  roar  of  voices  to  join  the 
cries  without. 

Inside  the  church  there  were  twelve  hundred  soldiers 
well  armed  to  keep  us  in  order;  but  for  a  time  I 
thought  it  doubtful  whether  they  would  succeed.  For  the 
crowd,  composed  of  Syrians,  Copts,  Armenians,  Greeks, 
Russians,  and  Abyssinians,  was  already  in  a  state  of 
almost  furious  excitement.  Wherever  one  looked, 
there  was  a  sea  of  vivid,  staring  faces,  with  eyes  aflame 
and  shouting  mouths ;  of  gesticulating  arms  and  hands ; 
of  pushing,  struggling  bodies.  To  and  fro  in  the  space 
kept  free  before  the  door  of  the  marble  house  Turkish 
officers  went  calmly  and  Greek  priests  anxiously.    Tour- 

285 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

ists  of  many  nations,  flushed  and  nervous,  sardonic, 
cynical,  amused,  touched,  alarmed,  or  merely  interested, 
hurried  to  their  places  convoyed  by  the  cavasses  of 
their  respective  consuls.  And  I,  not  without  consider- 
able satisfaction,  greeted  the  patriarch's  auburn-haired 
secretary,  and  took  my  stand  at  the  very  door  of  the 
Holy  Sepulcher.  Here  I  was  surrounded  by  soldiers, 
and  for  the  moment  had  plenty  of  room. 

The  crowd  surged  to  and  fro,  as  if  infected  by  an  un- 
governable impulse  to  change  its  place.  It  swayed 
against  the  double  lines  of  soldiers  with  a  wavelike 
motion,  was  repelled,  and  swayed  monotonously  back. 
Shouts  and  yells  broke  from  it.  Here  and  there  I  saw 
a  man,  who  had  been  thrust  up  on  to  the  shoulders  of 
his  fellows,  scrambling  about  like  one  on  a  moving  floor. 
There  were  multitudes  of  women  present,  many  of  them 
draped  in  shawls  of  various  colors  and  holding  mys- 
terious bundles.  And  it  seemed  to  me  that  every  one 
of  these  thousands  carried  a  big  packet  of  candles,  to  be 
lighted  later  at  the  sacred  fire.  Boys  bearing  bottles  of 
water  drew  attention  to  the  fact  by  loud  cries,  and  pres- 
ently there  appeared  a  number  of  youths  holding  trays 
heaped  with  cakes  and  flat  loaves  of  bread. 

Then  I  realized  the  hunger,  physical  as  well  as  spiri- 
tual (?),  of  this  yelling  mob.  A  roar  arose  when  the  cakes 
and  loaves  were  perceived.  Hundreds  of  hands  were 
stretched  out  frantically  toward  them.  Between  the 
pillars  of  the  round  church  had  been  put  up  rough  boxes 

286 


a  pholograiyli.  ^v.p>rti;M.  i->io.  by  Vndcrwood  &  Underwood 


ENTRANCE  TO  THE  CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHER 


CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHER 

of  uncovered  wood  to  accommodate  spectators.  From 
these  boxes  also  came  famished  cries,  and  from  them 
greedy  hands  were  stretched  down  toward  the  food. 
Now,  what  money  transactions  passed  I  know  not;  but 
the  would-be  sellers,  unable  to  make  their  way  into  the 
crowd,  passed  or  threw  the  cakes  and  loaves  to  the 
clamorers,  and  flung  them  upward  to  the  people  in  the 
boxes.  For  a  minute  the  air  was  full  of  flying  food. 
Then  the  trays  were  empty,  and  the  sellers  mysteriously 
disappeared. 

Meanwhile  my  satisfaction  at  my  prominent  position 
was  dying  in  anxiety.  More  and  more  people  were  let 
in  beyond  the  lines  of  the  soldiers.  The  crowd  behind 
them,  too,  seemed  to  be  encroaching.  To  the  left  there 
suddenly  broke  out  violent  fighting,  among  the  Arme- 
nians, I  was  told.  A  lady  near  me  fainted.  I  was 
pulled,  trodden  on.  I  began  to  long  for  my  place  in 
that  gilded  balcony  far  above  me  where  I  saw  Mr. 
Guerin  calmly  surveying  the  fierce  discomfort  below. 
With  every  moment  the  crush  increased  till  it  became 
alarming,  and  at  last  Mr.  Jamal  said  we  must  try  to  get 
away.  But  how?  And  where?  It  was  too  late  now  to 
gain  the  balcony.  In  a  very  few  minutes  the  patriarch 
would  enter.  The  fighting  grew  fiercer.  Mr.  Jamal  dis- 
appeared. With  a  good  deal  of  difficulty  I  stuck  to  my 
post  by  the  Holy  Sepulcher.  But  the  heat  and  the 
pressure  were  almost  unbearable.  Suddenly  a  hand 
grasped  my  arm;  I  was  pulled  forward.  I  struggled 
with  all  my  might,  found  myself  at  the  foot  of  a  ladder, 
23  289 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

scrambled  up  it,  and  was  above  the  tumult  in  one  of  the 
wooden  boxes  between  the  pillars,  and  immediately  be- 
low the  tiers  of  balconies  which  surround  the  church. 
Mr.  Jamal  took  his  stand  on  the  ladder,  to  keep  the 
door,  as  it  were,  and  there  he  remained  during  the  whole 
of  the  succeeding  ceremony. 

Though  in  what  seemed  a  very  precarious  situation, 
perched  on  thin  planks  roughly  nailed  together,  full  of 
holes  and  upheld  by  frail  wooden  supports,  I  was  now 
able  to  get  a  splendid  bird's-eye  view  of  the  extraordi- 
nary scene  about  the  sepulcher.  I  looked  right  down 
into  the  crowd,  and  was  close  to  it.  One  of  the  round 
holes  in  the  wall  of  the  marble  house  through  which  the 
holy  fire  is  thrust  was  almost  exactly  in  front  of  me. 
Near  it  stood  a  Greek  priest  holding  a  whip.  Two  or 
three  other  priests  holding  whips  were  close  by. 

The  crowd  had  now  begun  to  shout  in  chorus.  First 
in  Arabic  they  shouted: 

O  Jews,  O  Jews,  your  feast  is  that  of  the  devils; 

Ours  is  that  of  Christ ! 

And  Christ  has  redeemed  us. 

With  his  blood  he  has  bought  us. 

Therefore  to-day  we  are  happy, 

And  you,  O  Jews,  are  sad. 

Then  those  of  the  Syrian  pilgrims  who  had  come 
from  a  distance  shouted: 

O  St.  George, 

We  have  come  to  pray  at  the  sepulcher ! 

We,  we  are  the  Christians 

With  candles  in  our  hands. 

290 


CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHER 

Many,  as  they  lifted  their  voices,  Hfted  also  bare  arms 
in  wild  gesticulations.  On  all  sides  I  saw  frantic  hands 
grasping  bundles  of  candles,  holding  them  pointed  to- 
ward the  sepulcher,  and  waving  them  to  and  fro.  I 
looked  down  upon  what  seemed  a  vast  crowd  of  de- 
mented people,  who  had  thrown  off  every  scrap  of  self- 
restraint,  whose  strange  passions  went  naked  for  all  to 
see,  who  were  full  of  barbarous  violence,  savage  ex- 
pectation, and  the  blood-lust.  As  I  watched  them  I 
thought  of  a  pack  of  hounds  leaping  up  to  the  fox  that 
the  huntsman  is  about  to  throw  to  them.  Yet  these 
people,  in  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow,  and  drawn  from 
all  parts  of  Syria  and  other  lands,  wanted  only  —  to 
light  their  candles ! 

The  question  that  all  travelers  ask  in  Jerusalem  is: 
"Do  these  crowds  believe  that  what  happens  inside  the 
Holy  Sepulcher  is  a  miracle?  Do  they  believe  that,  as 
on  the  day  of  Pentecost,  fire  descends  from  heaven  di- 
rect to  the  Greek  patriarch  who  has  entered  the  Chapel 
of  the  Angels  with  the  Armenian  patriarch  ?  Or  do  they 
understand  that  the  ceremony  is  merely  emblematic, 
that  the  patriarchs  do  not  pretend  that  it  is  anything 
else?" 

Having  watched  the  people  on  this  extraordinary 
occasion  at  close  quarters,  I  am  unable  to  doubt  that 
hundreds,  probably  thousands,  of  them  do  believe  they 
are  assisting  at  a  miracle.  I  cannot  otherwise  account 
for  their  frantic  excitement,  an  excitement  such  as  I 

291 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

have  never  seen  in  any  other  crowd  not  intent  on  vio- 
lence or  slaughter.  After  the  working  of  the  "miracle," 
delirium  is  the  only  word  that  accurately  expresses  the 
condition  of  the  multitudes. 

But  now  suddenly  there  was  a  diminishing  of  the  up- 
roar. The  patriarch  had  entered  the  Chapel  of  the 
Angels.  Just  in  front  of  me,  by  the  round  hole  in  the 
wall  of  the  marble  house,  stood  a  Greek  priest  in  gor- 
geous vestments,  holding  a  bundle  of  candles  and  a 
handkerchief.  Another  priest  in  black  leaned  against 
the  marble  with  his  right  arm  thrust  through  the  hole. 
Near  him,  but  above  him,  was  a  man  holding  with  his 
right  hand  one  end  of  a  long  handkerchief  which  this 
priest  grasped  with  his  left  hand. 

The  noise  of  the  multitude  gradually  decreased,  till 
there  was  a  sort  of  hush  that  was  almost  ghastly.  Thou- 
sands of  faces  stared  toward  the  sepulcher.  Thousands 
of  arms  stretched  out  toward  it.  And  now  the  hands 
holding  the  candles  were  like  praying  hands,  supplicat- 
ing the  holy  fire  to  come  to  them. 

It  came  at  last.  With  a  fierce  gesture,  as  of  savage  ex- 
ultation, the  long-haired  priest  withdrew  his  arm  from  the 
hole  and  held  up  a  great  bunch  of  flaming  candles.  As  he 
did  so  he  dropped  his  end  of  the  handkerchief,  and  the  man 
above  the  crowd  furiously  waved  it  toward  the  Greek 
cathedral.  And  then  delirium  seized  the  close-packed 
thousands.  All  the  mouths  opened  toletoutyells,  shrieks, 
and  the  wild  twittering  of  women.     All  the  arms  ges- 

292 


CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHER 

ticulated  with  frenzy  toward  the  smoky,  yellow  flames. 
All  the  bodies  struggled  desperately,  cruelly,  to  get  to 
them.     And  the  priest  dipped  his  torch,  and  suddenly 
fire  began  to  rush  through  the  great  church.     The  pa- 
triarch—yes, the  graceful   and  dignified  Damianos  — 
tore  out  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher,  and  fell  in  the  Greek 
cathedral  with  the  fire  in  his  hands.     The  priest  in  vest- 
ments who  had  been  standing  in  front  of  me,  darted 
away  to  the  balconies,  brandishing  two  bunches  of  can- 
dles.    By  the  staircases  inside  the  marble  house  priests 
gained  its  roof  and  lighted  the  lamps  above  it.     From 
the  balconies  near  the  blue,  star-spangled  dome,  masses 
of  candles  were  let  down  by  long  cords,  were  lighted  by 
priests  below,  and  were  drawn  up  flaming.     Fire  en- 
circled the  rotunda,  three  tiers  of  fire.    Fire  rushed  into 
every  recess  of  this  temple  of  worship  and  frenzy,  up  to 
its  roof,  and  down  to  its  most  remote  cave  of  the  rock. 
The  light  of  day  was  literally  blotted  out  by  the  glare  of 
the  fire,  as  the  desperately  struggling  multitudes  sent  it 
on  from  hand  to  hand.     All  the  thousands  of  faces  were 
lit  up  by  a  yellow  glare.     Above  the  contending  bodies 
rose  wreaths  of  smoke.     A  heat  that  felt  unnatural  and 
dangerous    began    to    invade    the    sanctuary,  growing 
stronger   with    every    moment.     The    roar   of    voices 
sounded   menacing.     Always  above  it  rose   the  wild 
twittering  of  the  women.     And  still  the  serpents  of  flame 
grew  longer,  winding,  winding  over  the  thousands  of 
heads  as  more  and  more  candles  fed  greedily  at  the 

293 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

sacred  fire.  Beneath  me  a  woman's  bundle  caught  fire, 
and  was  extinguished ;  a  shawl  flared  up,  and  was  put 
out  by  the  pressure  of  the  crowd.  The  real  miracle 
seemed  to  be  that  the  whole  assemblage  of  fanatics,  ut- 
terly careless,  almost  devilishly  indifferent  in  their 
frenzy,  was  not  involved  in  one  vast  conflagration.  Be- 
neath my  feet  the  thin  boards  on  which  I  stood  grew 
hot.  The  pilgrims  immediately  below  had  lighted  their 
bunches  of  candles,  were  waving  them,  were  thrusting 
them  upward  till  the  flames  came  through  the  holes  in 
the  wood  and  played  about  our  feet.  We  stamped, 
knocked,  bent,  shouted  down  to  them.  Our  voices  were 
drowned  in  the  uproar. 

And  now,  impossible  though  it  seemed,  the  tumult 
grew  even  more  violent.  The  soldiers  were  clearing  a 
space  between  the  people  all  about  the  sepulcher.  The 
procession  was  coming  —  the  Greeks,  the  Armenians, 
the  Copts,  the  Syrians,  the  Abyssinians.  That  proces- 
sion through  the  glare,  the  smoke,  the  roaring,  and 
the  struggling,  was,  I  think,  the  most  picturesque,  the 
most  extraordinary  thing  I  have  ever  seen.  Impossible 
to  describe  it  in  detail !  Details  at  such  a  moment  are 
swallowed  up.  It  may  have  been,  doubtless  it  was, 
carefully  ordered.  The  effect  was  of  a  superb,  barbaric, 
and  wholly  irreligious  tumult,  in  which  gyrated,  almost 
dervishlike,  in  a  sea  of  fire,  beneath  hundreds  of  hang- 
ing-lamps and  bars  and  chains  of  gold  and  stars  in  a 
blue  vault,  the  bishops  and  priests  of  the  different  relig- 

294 


CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHER 

ions  of  Christ,  the  Prince  of  Peace,  accompanied  by 
soldiers,  by  acolytes,  by  banner-bearers,  by  cavasses 
beating  the  floor  with  their  staves.     Priests  shouted  for 
silence,    and  a  great    roar    was    their    answer.     Then 
hymns  M^ere  bellowed  in  antiphony  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  myriads  of  clapping  hands.     In  red  and  green 
and  yellow  the  Russian  cavasses  went  by.     Lines  of 
men  formed,  lifting  up  gorgeous  banners  of  blue  and 
gold  and  red  and  purple,  with  sacred  pictures  worked 
in   the  centers.     Behind  them  were   the  soldiers  with 
lifted  muskets ;  behind  the  soldiers,  thousands  of  flam- 
ing torches  shaken  by  tireless  hands.     And  down  the 
avenue   of  banners   and    muskets    and    torches    came 
bearded  and  long-haired  men  in  magnificent  vestments, 
stiff  with  silver  and  gold  embroideries,  and  gleaming 
with  jewels,  with  miters  on  their  heads,  and  candles  in 
their  hands,  on  which  shone  heavy  rings.     On  their 
breasts  were  crosses.     But  who  thought  of  the  cross 
whose  arms  have  stretched  across  the  world  ?     And  the 
Patriarch  Damianos  came,  weary  under  his  huge  white 
and  gold  head-dress ;  and  the  gorgeous  Armenians,  al- 
most like  moving  idols,  clad  in  the  jewels  from  their 
wonderful  treasury;  and  the  withered-looking  Copts; 
and  the  astounding  Abyssinians,  in  magenta,  with  partly 
shaved  heads  and  great  tufts  of  coarse  hair,  like  the 
gaudy  puppets  that  people  a  nightmare.     With  the  Ar- 
menians came  fierce  and  crafty-faced  youths,  throwing 
up  their  heads  and  shrieking  wild  hymns  as  they  stared 

295 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

about  them  with  shining  and  fanatical  eyes.  The 
Abyssinians  moved  with  a  sort  of  dancing  step,  shak- 
ing their  tufts  of  hair. 

And  the  procession  passed  and  was  hidden,  was  lost 
to  my  sight  in  a  glare  of  fire  and  a  murk  of  smoke  on 
the  far  side  of  the  sepulcher.  When  it  came  again,  I  no- 
ticed that  the  Copts  wore  tall  head-dresses  of  magenta 
and  gold,  adorned  with  gold  crosses.  Their  bishop  was 
in  white  and  gold,  with  a  miter,  and  bore  a  great  staff 
surmounted  with  a  cross,  and  also  carried  a  small  gold 
cross  in  his  right  hand.  A  large  gold  cross  was  carried 
in  front  of  the  Syrians.  Then  came  a  man  swinging  a 
silver  censer  and  wearing  a  robe  of  yellow  and  red  em- 
broidered with  red  flowers.  Other  Syrians  followed, 
wearing  loose  gowns  of  red,  yellow,  blue,  and  green,  and 
white  and  gold  hoods  bordered  with  pink.  One  man 
was  robed  in  white  and  green,  with  a  white  cap.  One 
in  royal  blue  and  gold  went  bare-headed.  Many  of  the 
Armenians  had  on  miters  of  black  and  gold.  Their 
patriarch,  who  held  a  cross  and  staff,  was  crowned  with 
an  immense  miter  with  an  embroidered  picture  on  the 
front. 

Numbers  of  men  in  shirt-sleeves,  or  with  bare  arms, 
had  now  forced  their  way  into  the  procession,  and  walked 
with  it,  frantically  waving  their  candles.  The  confusion 
became  greater  with  every  moment.  The  heat  was  al- 
most unbearable,  and  the  mounting  smoke,  which  hung 
in  veils  above  the  sepulcher,  made  the  eyes  blink  and 

296 


I 


THE  HOLY  SEPULCHER,  JERUSALEM 


^■■'ajKC...  ^^t^MJKn  i 


From  a  i,h..tM^rjpl 


|.>  rifht,  by  Underwood  &  I'litlcrwood 


CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHER 

tingle  till  it  was  difficult  to  see.  But  the  fierce  roaring 
of  hymns  still  almost  deafened  the  ears,  accompanied  by 
the  rhythmical  clapping  of  myriads  of  hands.  And  al- 
ways the  acute  voices  of  women  dominated  the  tumult, 
seemed  to  float  upward  with  the  smoke  above  the 
multitudes  of  lamps,  above  the  yellow  glare  of  the  per- 
vading fire,  above  the  rings  of  flame  that  marked  the 
balconies,  to  the  stars  in  the  blue  dome.  The  weary 
Damianos  fell  out  from  the  ranks  with  his  bishops  and 
priests.  But  still  the  Armenians,  blazing  with  immense 
jewels,  circled  the  sepulcher,  attended  by  the  youths  with 
the  fierce  faces  and  the  watchful  eyes.  And  the  Syrians 
came  in  their  many  colors,  and  the  Copts  with  their 
purple  banners.  And  still  the  Abyssinians  went  shriek- 
ing by  with  their  lithe  dancing  step,  opening  and  shut- 
ting their  thin  dark  hands,  as  if  they  were  feeling  for  the 
silver  clappers  with  which,  on  the  eve  of  Easter,  in  their 
savage  pavilion,  they  celebrate  the  glory  of  the  risen 
Christ  of  the  dark  men. 

At  last  through  the  tumult  there  came  the  sound  of  a 
bell.  And  presently,  how  I  never  knew  righdy,  we 
were  out  under  the  sky,  with  the  dream  of  fire  behind 
us,  and  the  voices  dying  from  our  ears. 

And  then,  after  the  wonderful  midnight  mass  on  the 
eve  of  Easter,  when  at  twelve  o'clock  bells  sounded 
within  the  church,  and,  as  each  one  of  the  thousands 
assembled  lighted  his  candle,  the  cry  went  up,  "Christ 

24  299 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

is  risen ! "  came  the  Easter  morning  ceremony  in  the 
court  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher. 

Ah,  how  gentle,  how  tender,  how  touching,  how  vital 
it  was,  that  simple  greeting  of  the  wonderful  morning 
after  the  delirium  and  the  fury  of  the  holy  fire!  All 
hearts  were  excited  to  frenzy  by  the  holy  fire.  The 
Easter  morning  procession  moved  hundreds  to  tears, 
held  them  tensely  silent.  Instead  of  the  blue  dome, 
spangled  with  artificial  stars,  a  faint  blue  sky  was  over 
our  heads.  Instead  of  the  glare  of  the  torches,  the  sun- 
beams fell  mildly  upon  us.  Instead  of  the  yelhng  multi- 
tudes, we  heard  the  sound  of  the  wonderful  bells.  They 
began  to  peal  forth  just  before  the  procession  entered 
the  court  from  the  city.  By  the  door  of  the  church  the 
Abyssinians,  in  white  and  black,  were  already  waiting. 
And  the  bells,  one  deep  and  booming,  the  others  lighter 
in  timbre,  were  harsh  and  very  barbaric,  but  thrilling 
and  full  of  meaning  —  bells  never  to  be  forgotten.  They 
sounded  like  strange,  like  emotional  voices  of  living 
things,  proclaiming  a  great,  a  superb  truth.  Down  be- 
low me  I  saw  tears  streaming  over  the  seamed  faces  of 
many  Russians  as  they  signed  themselves,  kissed  one 
another,  told  one  another,  "Christ  is  risen!"  answering 
to  the  triumphant  proclamation  of  the  bells,  which,  un- 
wearied, reiterated  their  marvelous  message  to  the  chil- 
dren of  men.  And  the  cavasses  in  blue  and  red  and 
gold  came  slowly  into  the  court,  and  a  man  carrying  the 

300 


CHURCH  OF  THE  HOLY  SEPULCHER 

cross,  and  boys  in  red  and  in  gold  with  swinging  lamps 
on  chains,  and  many  priests  in  black.  And  there  followed 
a  priest  with  his  arms  full  of  flowers,  and  behind  him 
another  bearing  on  high  the  risen  Christ  crowned  with 
a  halo  of  gold,  and  framed  in  a  glory  of  blossoms.  Then 
there  rose  from  the  thousands  of  pilgrims  a  cry  of  sweet 
exultation,  and  the  bells  seemed  to  grow  louder  as  they 
told  Jerusalem  that  the  marble  house  was  empty,  that 
the  stone  had  been  rolled  away.  The  bishops  appeared 
in  pale  yellow,  pearl  color,  and  gold,  all  holding  lighted 
candles.  And  last  of  all  came  Damianos,  bearing  a 
staff  and  a  jeweled  picture  of  the  risen  Christ.  The 
procession  stopped.  The  bells  were  silent.  There  was 
a  pause.  Then  the  patriarch  took  a  step  forward,  gazed 
at  the  immense  crowd  of  adoring  pilgrims,  lifted  the 
jeweled  picture  of  Christ,  held  it  out  toward  them  and 
said,  "Christ  is  risen!" 

As  his  voice  died  away,  the  priest  with  the  flowers 
raised  his  arms  and  showered  blossoms  over  the  crowd ; 
the  bells  pealed  forth  again;  the  procession  moved  on; 
and  the  pilgrims,  eagerly  lighting  their  candles  and  em- 
bracing one  another,  closed  in  behind,  crying,  "Christ 
is  risen !     Christ  is  risen  ! " 

And  so  into  the  darkness  of  the  great  church,  quietly, 
softly,  the  procession  gradually  vanished.  The  gloom 
was  lit  up  by  the  candles  of  priests  and  pilgrims. 
Through  the  doorway  I  saw  Damianos  in  his  gorgeous 

301 


THE  HOLY  LAND 

vestments  sink  humbly  down  to  kiss  the  stone  of  unc- 
tion. Then  the  Russians,  weeping  with  joy,  moved 
forward  and  hid  him  from  my  sight. 

The  crowds  melted  away ;  but  the  bells  never  ceased 
proclaiming  their  message.  It  was  as  if  they  knew 
that  their  voices  were  destined  not  only  to  tell  to  Jeru- 
salem, but  to  all  the  world  that  lay  beyond  the  confines 
of  the  city  of  Jesus,  the  truth  of  the  resurrection  — 
"  Christ  is  risen !     Christ  is  risen  from  the  dead  !  " 


302 


UCLA-College  Library 

DS  107.3  H52h 


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b     000  511  633     0 


